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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22873456">The Sound of Your Voice</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey'>athena_crikey</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU, Angst, Asahi would be the kindest teacher, Asahi's insecurities are practically their own character, Crushes, Deaf, Disability, Friendship, Fumbling, M/M, Muteness, New Relationship, Rating May Change, Sign Language, established relationships - Freeform, h/c i guess</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:00:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>46,407</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22873456</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>His smile is so simple. Just a hook of his lips, a crooked line. In any other circumstance it would look almost rakish, would captivate, would inspire. </p><p>Asahi sees it and can only sense the mountain of hidden pain behind it. He suddenly wants very much to reach out and take Nishinoya’s hand, to reassure him, to tell him it will all get better and he’ll regain what he lost. </p><p>But that’s just another cruelty. </p><p>OR: Asahi teaches a course in sign language for pairs and becomes more invested than he intended to.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Azumane Asahi/Nishinoya Yuu, Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Nishinoya Yuu &amp; Tanaka Ryuunosuke, Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi, Tsukishima Kei/Yamaguchi Tadashi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>198</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>925</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Beautiful Fics I will re-read until I can't anymore, HQ Feels (Mostly M or E), Lovely Fics I gotta reread, haikyuu fics i’ve read!!</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Introductions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I am very uneducated when it comes to the deaf and mute communities, so I hope you will be kind to me, and of course let me know of any mistakes.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Azumane-kun, a word.”</p><p>Asahi looks up from the schedule he’s preparing. Takeda, the Centre’s director, is standing in his doorway. He half-rises from his desk only to be motioned down by the director. Takeda comes in with a print-out that, even from across the room, Asahi recognizes as a registration form. </p><p>“I’ve received a late entry for your introductory program. They were recommended by a friend of mine. I don’t want to bias your decision, but I hope you will consider accepting them.”</p><p>Asahi looks down at the schedule he’s nearly completed. He had planned on three pairs for the introductory course, a nice intimate number and a good fit with the rest of his lessons. Four will throw off the balance, and require a complete rework of the schedule to fit in more 1:1s. “Well. Um. I can consider it,” he says cautiously. “May I see the application?”</p><p>Takeda hands over the form and Asahi scans it. Nishinoya Yuu and his friend, Tanaka Ryuunosuke. Loss of speech due to laryngectomy; cancer. No history with JSL or association with the deaf community. Reference from his SLP due to failure to adapt to alternate methods of speech. Asahi flips the page to the biography of Nishinoya and frowns. Only 25; he had expected someone in his 40s or older. Terrible luck to have laryngeal cancer that young. </p><p>There’s also a picture. The young man, only a year younger than Asahi, is smiling widely at the camera. He looks utterly happy, the definition of carefree. Asahi can only assume the picture was taken before the surgery that removed his ability to speak. But when his eyes drop to Nishinoya’s throat he sees the shadow of the stoma there, the hole through which he now breathes. Post-surgery, perhaps even post-failure of his speech language therapy, and still so bright. </p><p>Interesting. </p><p>Asahi looks back to his schedule. It will be tight, but… “I can make it work,” he says, glancing back up at Takeda. “I’ll book a pre-course introduction with them.”</p><p>Takeda beams. “Excellent. Much appreciated, Azumane-kun.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/>
***</p>
</div>Asahi’s courses were new to the Centre when he came onboard. He had made them up and pitched them to the director three years ago, and had been shocked to be green-lit to teach. The premise was simple: teaching sign language to those who needed to use it wasn’t enough. Those who they would be speaking with needed to learn as well. He taught courses for pairs, one a hearing or speech impaired individual, one their family member or friend. From a basis of two strong signers, he hoped they would be able to teach others as needed. He taught three-month courses at the beginner and intermediary stage; a certified teacher did the advanced work.<p>He liked to keep the groups small, unintimidating. Liked to get to know people, to become friends with his students. He had never been the kind to get up at the front of a lecture hall; his groups met in a cozy basement room filled with well-stuffed armchairs and a fake fireplace that crackled quietly in the background. </p><p>It’s not at all what he ever imagined doing with his life. But after three years of helping people find a voice for themselves, he can’t imagine doing anything else.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/>
***</p>
</div>Nishinoya and Tanaka arrive the next day, a rainy Thursday in late autumn. Raindrops are lashing against his window, his kettle whistling away behind him. He just finishes pouring out tea for them when they burst in, all sound and energy.<p>Tanaka is tall with a shaved head and narrow eyes, the kind of man Asahi would shy away from on the street. If the rumours in Asahi’s high school had labelled him as an upper-year hold-back, he is sure they would have labelled Tanaka as yakuza. But he’s smiling widely, and as he pushes the door open with one hand he has his other thrown around the shoulders of a much shorter man.</p><p>There’s no real way to avoid it: Nishinoya Yuu is tiny. He’s both short and slight, his frame narrow and his cheekbones high. His hair has been gelled upwards but even so Asahi doubts he would top 163 centimeters. He has a scarf folded loosely around his neck, far enough not to impede the stoma but close enough to hide it. His grin is wide and wicked and it does something funny to Asahi’s stomach. </p><p>“Azumane-sensei?” asks Tanaka, as they crowd into Asahi’s tiny office. </p><p>“Yes, that’s right. Really it’s just Azumane; I’m not a licensed teacher. I’m more of a coach.”</p><p>The two men both grin. “What a coincidence,” says Tanaka. “So’re we.”</p><p>“Um?”</p><p>Nishinoya elbows his friend in the side, phone in his other hand. He’s typing something in with both thumbs, lightning-fast. A moment later a text-to-voice software reads out in a bland female voice: “We coach volleyball.”</p><p>“What he said, but with emphasis,” says Tanaka. </p><p>“I see.” Asahi’s already feeling a little overwhelmed by the pair’s larger-than-life presence. He gestures them to the two seats in front of his desk and sets out the tea. “Please. Nishinoya-san, I see you’re using a text-to-voice program.”</p><p>There’s a pause as Nishinoya types. Then: “Yep. Ryuu downloaded it for me. It’s clunky, though. And I don’t sound like that at all.” He makes a face as the female voice reads out the last sentence dead-panned. </p><p>“Learning sign language won’t solve all your problems, I’m afraid. In many cases, text-to-voice is likely more convenient, since most of the public has no working knowledge of JSL. But with close acquaintances, going through a machine can be…”</p><p>“It mondo sucks,” reads the female voice. “I know it’s not the answer to all my problems. But maybe it’ll help me adapt, you know? To be able to still speak at least a little?”</p><p>Asahi nods. “It certainly could. For many people it is their sole method of communication. I like to be upfront with my students: I am not a member of the deaf community; I have no disability. However my sister was born deaf and we were both raised signing. For her, as long as she was at home we could communicate fluently.”</p><p>“And when she wasn’t at home?” asks Tanaka.</p><p>“That’s why I started this program. Because her knowing JSL didn’t do anything to help her in the outside world. I hope that for you, Nishinoya-san, having Tanaka-san as a touchstone will help you start to communicate more fluently in your day-to-day reality.”</p><p>Nishinoya nods slowly. </p><p>“Do you mind if I ask you a little about your history? I know it was provided at a high level in your application form, but I want to make sure I understand your circumstances. Anything you tell me will remain confidential.”</p><p>Nishinoya nods again.</p><p>“You had a laryngectomy – when?”</p><p>Nishinoya waves to Tanaka, who answers, “Six months ago.”</p><p>Asahi nods. “I see. Any ongoing treatment?”</p><p>He shakes his head. Tanaka pipes in: “He had radiation therapy at the time. No chemo. His six month tests were all clean.” </p><p>Asahi can hear the relief in his voice, notes the way his hand clenches on his teacup. For some reason he too feels a sudden crush of relief. His voice, when he speaks, is soft with it.</p><p>“That’s great. Congratulations.” </p><p>Nishinoya types something out. “Never expected the smokes’d get me so young. Both Ryuu and I quit after I was diagnosed.” The automated voice struggles with the unfamiliar contraction; Nishinoya makes another face. </p><p>“It must have been very hard,” says Asahi sympathetically. </p><p>“Everyone stayed so positive,” writes Nishinoya. “The doctors, the SLP, everyone. ‘Most people find a way to regain their speech,’ they said. ‘Keep trying.’ But I tried and tried and…” he spreads his hands expressively. “I try not to let it get me down.”</p><p>His smile is so simple. Just a hook of his lips, a crooked line. In any other circumstance it would look almost rakish, would captivate, would inspire. </p><p>Asahi sees it and can only sense the mountain of hidden pain behind it. He suddenly wants very much to reach out and take Nishinoya’s hand, to reassure him, to tell him it will all get better and he’ll regain what he lost. </p><p>But that’s just another cruelty. </p><p>“Please know that the others in the group will also be struggling with their own battles, their own realities. You won’t be alone there.”</p><p>Nishinoya blinks. “Most people just tell me it will be okay,” he types. </p><p>“One thing you learn in signing is that words matter, Nishinoya-san. Sometimes relentless positivity does more harm than good.”</p><p>“I like this guy,” says Tanaka, suddenly. Nishinoya looks over at his friend and grins – a proper, wicked one this time. He gives a thumbs up. </p><p>Asahi smiles. “I’m glad,” he says, and really he is. He doesn’t know what it is about this young man, who looks fragile but is clearly incredibly tough, who is damaged but also determined. And who, if Asahi is honest, is ridiculously cute. He clears his throat and tries to get his mind focused on the job.  </p><p>“About the course – it’s two group sessions a week, Tuesday and Thursday evenings, and then two 1 on 1 sessions for Nishinoya-san. I have some proposed times for those but we can coordinate our schedules. The purpose of the group sessions is to enable you to practice what you’ve learned in a real conversation situation. The purpose of the 1:1 time is to help Nishinoya-san with more practice tailored to what he needs. I must stress that if you don’t work on this outside the class, you won’t succeed. I provide materials to you that will teach you the phonetic spellings, kanji, signs and mouthing you need to know. Please study them on your own or together so that you’re well-prepared to try to converse with the group.”</p><p>They both nod. Asahi reaches into his desk and pulls out two thumb drives. “There are video and reading materials on here. You’re also free to do your own research of course. NHK broadcasts the JSL news at 9:30pm every evening; I strongly recommend you watch that as well.” He leans back. “Do you have any questions for me?”</p><p>Nishinoya blinks, then grins fiendishly and types something into his phone. “Are you single?”</p><p>Asahi feels his stomach twist. He swallows and chokes, coughing desperately. </p><p>“Just kidding,” continues the toneless female voice while Nishinoya beams. “Looking forward to class. Okay if I email you some times for the 1 on 1?” </p><p>“Please do,” says Asahi faintly. </p><p>“Great.” He slurps down the rest of his tea and plunks the cup down on the desk, then stands and looks to Tanaka.</p><p>“Okay, let’s roll,” says Tanaka. “Thanks, coach.”</p><p>Nishinoya glances over his shoulder as he rounds the doorframe and winks. </p><p>Asahi slowly leans back in his chair and exhales. This is going to be an interesting group.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Group</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Monday is blustery, the tail-end of a late season typhoon ripping through Tokyo. Asahi has 1:1s scheduled with Suga and Nishinoya, but the latter begged off for the first one, being unable to adjust his calendar so soon. So Asahi meets with just Suga, the two of them in the office with the space heater on and a pair of tall overly-sweetened lattes provided by Suga. They’re a secret indulgence of Asahi’s, who on his salary and with an apartment to pay rent on can’t afford regular trips to a coffee shop for anything other than plain drip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The elementary-school teacher is much the same as always, with kind eyes and a generous mouth and long careful hands that had been so skillful at setting when they had played together. His fingers are wrapped around the coffee cup for warmth, Asahi’s space heater not up to much and the old building full of draughts. “So,” Suga says with a soft smile. “What should we discuss?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi settles himself. “The purpose of the 1 on 1s is to help you build skills and vocabulary. In your case, to support your student. Tell me a bit about what you’re doing in class, and we can go from there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suga leans back, eyes thoughtful. “Maria-chan is a grade 2 student. We’re learning the basic fundamentals of pretty much everything – Japanese, math, science, social studies, music, home ec.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi has a brief image of Suga in home economics, wearing an apron and teaching his tiny students how to sew simple stitches. It’s heartwarmingly domestic; he wonders if Suga sews for Daichi. Knowing Suga, he would probably make Daichi do it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In that case, rather than tailoring a specific vocabulary to you, I think it’s best if we start simply. In grade 2 Maria-chan won’t know most of the kanji that JSL references. You’ll have to be thoughtful about which ones you use. Also, although she will doubtless be more fluent than you, the gap won’t be as large as it would be with an adult. If there’s anything you’re particularly worried about, you can bring in the curriculum and we can focus on that. How does that sound?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suga smiles. “You’re very good at this, Asahi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi shifts, ears hot. “It’s my job. And you’re the one who took the initiative to try to learn for your student. None of Ayumi’s teachers ever did. It means a lot. More than you know.” He signs <i>thank you. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suga puts his coffee down and clumsily manages <i>you’re welcome. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should we start practicing, then?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Yes,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Suga.</span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p><span>***</span></p></div></div><span>Looking over the attendee list, Asahi’s glad he’ll have Suga and Daichi to act as bastions of normalcy for the group. It’s a completely male class: 8 men – 9 including him – and he’s noticed in the past that sometimes conversation becomes challenging when frustrations mount with only men present. They’re generally less adept than women at putting aside their own feelings to ease the group’s experience, and Asahi feels awkward trying to exert authority when conflict arises. With Suga and Daichi there, hopefully things will be easier. They’re both dedicated learners and steady personalities, and both project a natural calm that’s soothing in tense situations. </span><p>
  <span>He looks down the list, making mental notes against each pair from his initial meeting with them.</span>
</p>
<ul>
<li><span>Suga and Daichi – no problems there</span></li>
<li><span>Yamaguchi and Tsukishima – one overly-solicitous, the other apparently indifferent. Definite potential for awkwardness and one-sided learning</span></li>
<li><span>Hinata and Kageyama – a fluent signer and a beginner, both with short fuses. Challenging dynamic</span></li>
<li><span>Nishinoya and Tanaka – </span></li>
</ul><p>
  <span>He pauses, thinking back to his interview with the two of them. They had been enthusiastic, garrulous, and, in Nishinoya’s case, flirtatious. Just the kind of person Asahi’s always had the most trouble dealing with. The kind of person who makes him feel endlessly awkward with unexpected compliments and endless self-confidence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kind of person he’s always wished he were. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, he tidies away the list and turns his mind to his next lesson.</span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p><span>***</span></p></div></div><span>He has a 1:1 with Yamaguchi Tadashi the next morning. On his own the young man is surprisingly pleasant, with a calm straightforwardness that hadn’t been at all apparent in his interview with his friend present. Asahi makes tea for all his single learners; it helps break the ice and make the lessons a little more personal. Yamaguchi drinks his in small sips in between fluttery, abortive gestures that aren’t quite right. Asahi is patient and polite, providing the correct signs when his fingers slip and suggesting words when his vocabulary faulters. They carry out a halting conversation which for Asahi is standard: weather, time, work, hobbies. </span><p>
  <span>Surprisingly, Yamaguchi immediately gives volleyball as his hobby. He fails to know the word for it and instead gesturing with a bump. Asahi blinks and provides the sign for volleyball. And then, <i>What’s your position?</i> He signs position and then spells it slowly, allowing Yamaguchi to process it.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>MIDDLE BLOCKER,</span>
  </i>
  <span> spells Yamaguchi slowly. <i>Same as TSUKKI</i>. </span>
</p><p><span>月</span> <span>signs Asahi, providing the kanji. Yamaguchi shakes his head. </span></p><p>
  <span>“Tsukki,” he says aloud, articulating it. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I see,</span>
  </i>
  <span> replies Asahi. It’s a strange coincidence – everyone in their group has a connection with volleyball. At least it will give them something uncontroversial to talk about. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Tell me about your team,</span>
  </i>
  <span> he signs.</span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p><span>***</span></p></div></div><span>Tuesday afternoon rolls around and finds Asahi in the basement cleaning out the detritus of the last group to have made use of the shared space. He erases the chalkboard and prints up the group rules clearly, then gathers the armchairs around in a loose circle. He doesn’t make tea or coffee for group; there are no tables and they need their hands free. He puts stick-on nametags on a small square table by the door and pastes his own on over his heart. </span><p>
  <span>The students start trickling in just before 6. Yamaguchi and Tsukishima show up first; they greet him and then hive off into two chairs on the far side of the room. Tsukishima has headphones on and Yamaguchi is reading on his phone, the two of them lost in their own worlds. Asahi brings over their nametags; Yamaguchi sticks his on enthusiastically, Tsukishima reluctantly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daichi and Suga arrive next; Asahi makes sure to greet them professionally, although he sees the humour in Daichi’s eyes as he recognizes Asahi’s attempt at distance. They stay and chat for a minute about mundane topics – traffic, weather – and when the next pair arrives they move on. Hinata and Kageyama come in arguing about some recent play from Schweiden Alders, Kageyama carefully facing Hinata so the latter can read his lips. Hinata’s speech is accented, the tones of one who has never heard the words he speaks. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Hi sensei,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Hinata as they come in. And then, <i>this jerk is here too</i>, he adds, thumbing at Kageyama and picking up his name sticker. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” says Kageyama suspiciously, dark brows narrowed. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Azumane is fine,</span>
  </i>
  <span> replies Asahi. <i>Welcome</i>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hinata skips over to take a seat beside Suga, throwing himself into the deep armchair and looking up over the back at Kageyama. “First!” he says, kicking his legs like a child. Kageyama rolls his eyes and sits down beside him. They start introducing themselves to the others, Yamaguchi leaning in and Tsukishima condescending to take off his headphones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi’s just handing out the personal whiteboards when Nishinoya and Tanaka arrive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The dream team is here,” announces Tanaka as they enter, both in track suits, Nishinoya in a scarf and flashing a V-sign cheekily at Asahi. He feels his heart give a little squeeze. They give a synchronized wave to the room as if they had choreographed it, grab their stickers and then saunter in and take the seats beside Kageyama. Nishinoya kicks off his shoes and sits cross-legged in the chair, dashing <i>Noya</i> on his name sticker and slamming it crookedly on his chest. He throws the end of his scarf over his shoulder, grabs a whiteboard from Asahi and proceeds to draw bloody manga scenes on it. Beside him Tanaka draws a penis; they both cackle, Nishinoya silently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi represses the urge to roll his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a position standing next to the blackboard mounted on the wall and puts his hand up. The other men stare at him uncomprehendingly except for Hinata, who also immediately puts his hand up. He pokes Kageyama in the side and the taller man slowly raises his hand; the rest of the hands go up and the chatter stops. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good afternoon,” says Asahi, putting down his hand and signing along as he talks. “Welcome to Intro to JSL. When I want to catch your attention, I will do this.” He raises his hand, and they nod. “It allows me to signal you silently. Apart from this introduction, our conversations will be in JSL. Please note the rules of the group.” He gestures at the board:</span>
</p>
<ol>
<li><span>No speaking. Not everyone present can hear you. We converse as equals. </span></li>
<li><span>Don’t interrupt. If you feel you are not being heard, raise your hand. </span></li>
<li><span>If you’re struggling, ask a neighbour for help.</span></li>
</ol><p>
  <span>He waits for everyone to read it, then continues. “I would like everyone to very briefly summarize why you are here on the board you’ve been given so we can get to know each other. You may want to mention your experience with JSL. No essays, please!” he smiles and they uncap their markers and begin to write. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waits until everyone is finished, then points at Tsukishima, the first to his right. The tall blond raises his board, his printing neat and polished. University graduate working at a company, Asahi remembers from his brief bio. His board reads: <i>Yamaguchi’s friend. No experience with JSL.</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yamaguchi nods and holds up his board, printing less exact: <i>Losing hearing – genetic condition. Learning JSL for a few months.</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daichi is next, text clipped and difficult to read. Asahi bets he spends his day in the police box filling out reports illegibly. <i>Here with Suga. No familiarity with JSL. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suga smiles. His writing is large and rounded, as befits an elementary school teacher. <i>Grade 2 teacher with a deaf student. A little experience with JSL. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hinata raises his board over his head, waving it slightly, until Kageyama reaches over and chops him in the stomach. He doubles up, glaring. In inexact Japanese, he’s written: <i>Born deaf. Fluent in JSL!</i> :)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kageyama’s writing is also less than perfect, his strokes unconfident. <i>Hinata’s boyfriend. A little JSL. Hinata’s a shitty teacher.</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Am not!</span>
  </i>
  <span> Signs Hinata, dropping his board onto his lap. <i>You’re a shitty student</i>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kageyama just looks unimpressed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi signals to Tanaka. His message is brief, printing short and concise: <i>Noya’s BFF. Can’t sign. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya proudly pushes forward his board, his writing flamboyant and sassy. <i>Can hear can’t talk. No JSL (Yet!)</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all look back to Asahi. He picks up the introductory thread again, this time taking a seat in the only empty chair left – the one beside Nishinoya. He continues to sign as he speaks, slowly and clearly. “Thank you. It’s important for you to understand that there are two main learning curves in JSL – learning the vocabulary, and familiarizing your fingers with signing. These group sessions should help with both, but you will need to practice on your own – and make sure when you practice you don’t just watch the videos. Please sign along with them. Otherwise your movements will be jerky and unsure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like us to start the conversation now. Through meeting with you all I’ve observed a common thread: everyone here has played volleyball. Let’s start with that as the topic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Wow, really? </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Hinata, fingers flashing through the forms. <i>That’s sweet! </i> </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi can sense the bemusement in the room. <i>Slower please, Hinata-san</i>, he urges. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Sweet?</span>
  </i>
  <span> Asks Yamaguchi. <i>Like… sugar?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Like cool!</span>
  </i>
  <span> Explains Hinata, grinning and squirming in his chair. Asahi has the sense that he’s rarely still for long. <i>Awesome, sick, kick-ass!</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>We really all… volleyball? </span>
  </i>
  <span>Asks Kageyama, fudging his sentence. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>All play,</span>
  </i>
  <span> provides Asahi. Around the room, the other men all nod. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>That </span>
  </i>
  <span>is <i>not-usual</i>. Suga glances at Daichi, who nods. <i>Daichi, Asahi – Azumane-san – and I all played in … </i>he trails off, frowning. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>High school,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Asahi. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Again?</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>High school,</span>
  </i>
  <span> repeats Asahi; Suga tries it out as if tasting the new words. Then,</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Yes, we played in high school. </span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>What positions?</span>
  </i>
  <span> Asks Yamaguchi; Asahi is pleased to see he’s already using the new vocabulary he learned that morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suga looks to Asahi, who smiles back and waits for him to try. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>SETTER,</span>
  </i>
  <span> spells Suga, and then motions setting a ball. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Me too,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Kageyama, looking at Suga darkly, as if sizing him up. Suga smiles back at him, the picture of innocence. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Wow, dial it back with the antagonism there, Kageyama! I’m a MB,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Hinata. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Me too!</span>
  </i>
  <span> Yamaguchi smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Me too.</span>
  </i>
  <span> Tsukishima does not. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>WIN SIPKER, </span>
  </i>
  <span>spells out Tanaka slowly and slightly inaccurately. <i>I have a …</i> he looks to Hinata, clearly focused on remembering the signs <i>kick-ass straight</i>. He demonstrates spiking an imaginary ball. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Also WS,</span>
  </i>
  <span> adds Daichi. <i>I </i>… he looks to Asahi, and puts out his arms as if receiving. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Receive,</span>
  </i>
  <span> provides Asahi. Daichi nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I receive a lot. </span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Defense,</span>
  </i>
  <span> suggests Hinata, and then spells it out when Daichi looks confused. He nods. Tanaka jumps in:</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>And I’m…</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Offense,</span>
  </i>
  <span> replies Hinata. <i>We would make an awesome team. Except we need a libero</i>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya straightens. <i>Me me me!</i> For a moment he looks thrilled, face shining with excitement. And then, like a curtain drawn over the sun, it disappears abruptly. <i>But can’t now</i>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hinata frowns. <i>Why not?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi feels a wave of anxiety crest, sees the shadow of a frown cross Tanaka’s lips. But Nishinoya isn’t signing an answer, he’s lifting his hand to pull down the scarf at his neck. His stoma is revealed, the hole the size of a cigarette burn, dark and slightly puckered. <i>Can’t </i>… he looks to Asahi questioningly, slowly breathing deeply. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Breathe,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Asahi helplessly, feeling wretched. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Can’t breathe right.</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I’m sorry, Noya-san,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Suga, always the mother hen. <i>That’s very bad</i>. Clearly ‘awful’ is not yet in his vocabulary. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>You can’t play?</span>
  </i>
  <span> Asks Hinata, face curiously frozen. <i>Because of that?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>But you’re a libero. You can switch out if you get strained.</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya stares at the hand gestures, bewildered. Hinata slows down and repeats them. Nishinoya looks flummoxed. He starts to sign something, falters, and finally wipes off his board and writes <i>Doctor’s orders</i>.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Yeah, they ordered me not to play too,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Hinata, his gestures curt and angry now. <i>The high school team let me on, but the university league wouldn’t allow me to play. Fuck ‘em, Noya-san. You do what you want to.</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room is utterly silent as everyone watches this drama unfold solely via hand signals, with varying levels of comprehension. The tension is thick though, unmistakable. Nishinoya slowly replies: <i>What you do now?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I play on a community team. Kageyama’s in the J-LEAGUE, but he subs in sometimes if we don’t have enough players. He’s not supposed to, but no one would dare call him on it – he’s the best setter in the league.</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>You’re </span>
  </i>
  <span>that <i>Kageyama</i>? Asks Nishinoya, staring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kageyama practically ignores the question, as if his professional status were of no consequence. <i>Yes. But I agree Hinata. You want play, play</i>, signs Kageyama brokenly.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tanaka’s face looks stormy. <i>Not so easy</i>, he breaks in, gestures sloppy with emotion. <i>You don’t know…</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya reaches out and places a hand on his elbow. <i>OK, Ryuu</i>. <i>OK.</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like a displeased guard dog, Tanaka subsides into dark glares with his arms crossed over his chest, chewing idly on his lip. The other men subconsciously shift away from him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi steps in, feeling it’s time for a change of pace before things become too dire. His heart is speeding, his palms moist with anxiety as the tension lies thick in the room. He focuses on keeping his signs slow and clear. <i>Thanks everyone. We can return to volleyball in later sessions. But for now, why don’t we talk about TV and Movies?</i> He signs carefully, emphasizing TV and Movies.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a pause, the room adjusting to the shift in direction. Then, shyly, glancing at his friend as if for approval Yamaguchi signs: <i>Tsukki and I watch KDRAMA.</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yama –” begins Tsukishima, and then switches to signs, <i>Yamaguchi…</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Sorry Tsukki</span>
  </i>
  <span>. He smiles and bobs his head apologetically. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I watch not-often,</span>
  </i>
  <span> says Suga, thankfully spearing the awkwardness. Asahi sighs, feeling the room beginning to lighten up. Thank God for Yamaguchi and Suga. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Sometimes? </span>
  </i>
  <span>Suggests Asahi, and he considers. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Yes, sometimes. Like HOW ARE U BREAD.</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <span>Yamaguchi nods. <i>We watch that!</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Yamaguchi… </span>
  </i>
  <span>interjects Tsukishima repressively. Asahi glances at him with all the censure he can muster (not much). </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Please speak a little more, Tsukishima-san.</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <span>Tsukishima glances at him with cold eyes, but slowly signs with surprising deftness <i>I like DOCUMENTARIES. I saw ORIGAMI yesterday. </i>His spelling of the complicated words is perfect. Asahi makes a mental note – clearly more than meets the eye there. He also provides the signs. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Documentaries, and origami.</span>
  </i>
  <span> He’s careful to keep them clear and slow. Tsukishima nods slightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>We watch volleyball all the time!</span>
  </i>
  <span> exclaims Hinata. <i>Kageyama says it’s for research, but it’s really just because he’s a big nerd. Oh and also true crime. Last week was Nishiguchi. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daichi smiles. <i>We don’t watch COP TV</i>. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Daichi’s a COP, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Suga. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>A cop, cool!</span>
  </i>
  <span> Hinata grins. <i>Do you solve crimes and arrest bad guys?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I work POLICE BOX. No … arrests? </span>
  </i>
  <span>He waits for Hinata to nod. <i>Lots help with… </i>He looks to Asahi, lost. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Tourists? </span>
  </i>
  <span>Suggests Asahi. <i>Foreigners? Directions? </i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Directions, </span>
  </i>
  <span>agrees Daichi. <i>And writing</i>. He mimes doing paperwork. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi smiles. The back of his mind is paying attention to Nishinoya though, concerned about whether he feels vulnerable after their earlier conversation. He seems to be playing close attention to the discussion, face bright and eager. Asahi remembers his biography photo – so upbeat despite everything. If he had been through what Nishinoya has, he’d be a complete wreck, and probably a shut-in. And here Nishinoya is with a group of strangers exposing his weaknesses without any apparent pause. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi wonders what it would be like to be that brave.</span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p><span>***</span></p></div></div><span>The chatter moves from entertainment to news, then to talking about high school volleyball – inter-highs, prelims, qualifiers. Asahi keeps an eye on both Nishinoya and Tanaka, but it seems that this discussion is far enough in the past not to affect them and they both contribute eagerly, the two of them vying with Hinata for highest level of enthusiasm. </span><p>
  <span>The hour seems to fly by, and Asahi’s sorry to break their streak when his phone alarm goes off. He raises his hand and slowly the others do as well, looking up and stopping signing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi stands and speaks. As always, after an hour of silence his voice seems oddly loud. He signs along as he closes them out: “I’m sorry to stop us here. You’ve all done a great job. I hope this has been interesting for you. We pick up again Thursday evening. Please email me with any questions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They begin standing slowly. Yamaguchi crosses to Hinata and starts asking him about lip reading. Suga and Daisuke talk to Kageyama, asking him about the Olympics. Tsukishima puts his headphones back on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi walks over to Nishinoya, who’s pulling on his shoes. “I can ask the group not to discuss medical matters if you like, Nishinoya-san.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya looks up. He pats his nametag, smiling. “Noya-san,” corrects Asahi. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>It’s OK</span>
  </i>
  <span>, signs Nishinoya. <i>It doesn’t…</i> he stops, fingers tapping, then digs out his phone and starts typing. “It doesn’t bother me,” says the text-to-voice reader. “No point running from who I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya grins. “I know. You’re a big old sweetie, I can tell. But I’m tough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi can feel his face reddening. “You are,” he stammers, tongue-tied in a way that never happens to him when he signs. What’s worse is that he has a sense Nishinoya is drinking in his embarrassment, is enjoying it. Not cruelly, but as a token of success. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya gives a wolfish smile. “You know it.” His fingers pause, and then resume at a more sedate pace. “Besides, it was interesting to hear from Hinata. He’s got some good insight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He doesn’t know what you’re dealing with,” says Tanaka, looming in. Nishinoya glances up at him, expression calm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. But I don’t know what he’s dealing with either. He’s the first person I’ve met who’s been through something similar. You’ve been here through everything, Ryuu, nothing could replace that. But you don’t know what it’s like to be told you can’t play.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tanaka nods slowly. “I hear ya.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. Azumane-san, you run a wicked class. Thanks for having me and Ryuu. I’m looking forward to our 1 to 1 on Thursday.” There’s that sharp-toothed smile again, all appreciation and hunger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um. Yes,” agrees Asahi, voice uneven. Nishinoya gives a jaunty salute and then signs <i>Bye. </i>The wicked look in his eye turns Asahi’s guts to water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the group starts breaking up and filing out. After a couple of minutes only Suga and Daichi remain with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That went well, don’t you think?” asks Daichi, looking out the door after the last of the class. Asahi sighs and sinks down into a chair. “Asahi?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think someone’s a little sweet on a student,” says Suga softly. “Noya-san <i>is </i>pretty remarkable, isn’t he Asahi?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi buries his face in his hands. “Shut up, Suga,” he moans. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>月 - Tsuki.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Start of the Journey</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“So,” says Daichi from nearby, voice wry. “Sounds like it’s time for drinks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Definitely,” agrees Suga, poking the crown of Asahi’s head with one finger. “C’mon. It’ll do you good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You always say that about alcohol, and it’s never true,” moans Asahi, but he straightens and stands. He takes up the white boards and markers, peers into the garbage – close enough to empty – and turns out the light. Upstairs he dumps the supplies in his office and grabs his coat while Daichi and Suga caucus about possible izakayas nearby. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Outside the air is brisk, the sky already dark. Asahi remembers fall nights in Miyagi that smelt of dead leaves and damp earth – rich, evocative smells. Tokyo smells like exhaust and cigarette smoke; apart from greater career opportunities, the big city has done little to endear itself to him. He was comfortable at home where he knew everyone and everyone knew him. In Tokyo the vast sea of strangers, the constant press of the unknown, is alarming. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At least he still has Suga and Daichi. He could never have done it alone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are we not talking about it?” asks Suga as they stroll down the street towards a nearby izakaya, a relatively cheap one with a limited selection of beers and snacks. It’s the one Asahi prefers, for its pricing rather than its quality. Overhead colourful LED signs illuminate tall buildings advertising shops, restaurants and karaoke. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“About what?” asks Asahi, playing dumb. But that’s never worked with Suga, who despite his angelic looks knows exactly how to get what he wants. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“About you and Noya-san. You’ve got the worst poker face known to man, Asahi.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s a student,” protests Asahi. “There’s nothing else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yet,” grins Suga. “It’s not as if he’s underage, or there’s a formal teaching relationship between you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve thought about this far too much.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, planning my responses about K-Dramas didn’t take a lot of attention.” He pauses, then continues in a softer tone, “The way you looked when he revealed his limitations… it was clear you were taking it personally.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Daichi lays a hand on Suga’s shoulder. “We don’t have to discuss it,” he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi exhales deeply, breath fogging in the cold air. “I just… I can’t imagine being through what he has and still being so upbeat. He exudes cheerfulness. How can anyone be that unaffected?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He probably isn’t,” says Daichi as they come up on a red light and pause. “No one could lose what he has and not be impacted. He hasn’t had any control over what’s happened to him – but what he chooses to show the world, that he can control.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They arrive at the izakaya and peel in, the warm smoky fug washing against their faces like a wave. They shed their coats as they wait for a seat, the three of them crammed in the narrow entryway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s talk about something else,” suggests Asahi. “I shouldn’t be gossiping about a student.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not gossip if it’s about your love life,” replies Suga, but when Daichi shoots him a glance he smiles. “Yes, yes, I’ll behave. What should we talk about then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<i>Your </i>love life,” replies Asahi, lightening up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga chops him in the side. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>  <span>***</span></p></div></div><span>Drinks follow – two rounds of beer – supplemented by the usual topics of conversation: tales from Suga’s job peppered by dry comments from Daichi, a brief account of the police department’s office politics, and the events of Asahi’s community volleyball team. He’s the only one who still plays; the other two have too many work commitments to make regular games. </span><p>
  <span>The hour passes quickly, by the end of which time they’re all ready to head home. “God, when did we become such adults?” asks Daichi as they tell the server they don’t want any more drinks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“About the time you graduated from the Academy as an honest-to-God policeman,” says Suga. “That pretty much put the last nail in the coffin.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not the day you were certified to look after 7 year-olds?” replies Daichi with a grin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi smiles along. They were an old married couple even in high school and they haven’t changed nearly a decade later. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga finishes a tart retort and gets up to use the bathroom before leaving. Daichi leans forward, elbows on the table. “He worries about you, you know. Alone in Tokyo…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not alone. I’ve got you two. And my team. And the other instructors at the Centre…” Asahi trails off into silence under Daichi’s knowing look. It’s not the same as having someone to share his life with, and they both know it. “I’m not very good at putting myself out there,” he admits, running a hand over his pulled-back hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe what you need is someone who can pull you out of yourself. Someone who exudes cheerfulness.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi winces. “Are you both going to play matchmaker now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not if you don’t want us to. But the classes are a good way to meet someone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re not my personal dating service, Daichi.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. But they’re an opportunity to meet people who you understand – and who understand you. Who understand the things that are important to you. I’d say Noya-san in particular is a stand-out candidate. And if I’m any judge, he wouldn’t be adverse to the attention.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi blushes at the thought of Nishinoya’s off-handed flirtations. “I guess he wouldn’t be,” he says lamely. “But…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi sighs. “But I’m a huge chicken.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You stood toe-to-toe with the toughest teams in the prefecture. You can survive being shamelessly flirted with by a good-looking man. You’ve got a lot to offer, Asahi. Don’t forget it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a step from behind him; Suga returning. Daichi turns up his face to smile at his lover, and Asahi grabs his coat. Time to go. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>  <span>***</span></p></div></div><span>Asahi gets home half an hour later and reheats some leftover curry from his fridge for dinner. He boots up his laptop and pulls up his email – three new emails since this afternoon. With no data on his plan – another concession to his limited salary – he relies on his home and work wifi to check his inbox. </span><p>
  <span>One of the emails is from Takeda reminding them of the upcoming Labour Thanksgiving holiday; one’s from an intermediate student with a question about homework. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The third’s from Nishinoya Yuu, an email with no subject line. Asahi hovers his mouse over the bold notification, suddenly anxious, mind running in circles. What if he’s upset? Frustrated? Quitting?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi takes a deep breath. <i>Stop catastrophizing. He was totally engaged when he left</i>, he tells himself, and clicks on the email. It pops up on the screen:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Hi Coach!</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Thanks for the session today. I can’t believe we’re all v-ball boys. Do you still play? </span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I don’t think I’m ready to try to play again, but I’d love to help out with a community team. I can still run drills and do scoring and refereeing as well as coaching. And to be honest, it would be great to have an opportunity to help out with a team where someone understands me. </span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Maybe it’s too forward of me to try to muscle in on your team, but I thought I’d ask. You seem like the kind of guy who’d have a great team – if they’re all like you. (</span>
  </i>
  <i>
    <span>≧∇≦</span>
  </i>
  <i>
    <span>)</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Hope you don’t mind me asking,</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>&lt;3 Noya </span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi stares at the email for nearly a minute, reading and re-reading it. He considers texting Suga and Daichi for their advice but decides not to; no need to enable their drive to match-make. He’s a grown man. He can make his own decisions. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hits reply and sits there watching the cursor blink while the steam rises from his curry. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s risky. If he says yes and it goes badly, it will create intense awkwardness. On the other hand, it’s a great opportunity to get to know Nishinoya outside the confines of his job. Although the boundary is somewhat artificial, he can’t help but feeling that as an instructor he has a duty not to be romancing his students. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although Nishinoya seems to be the one interested in doing the romancing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, after several mouthfuls of curry, he puts his fingers to the keyboard and types:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Noya-san,</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Thanks for your note. I am on a community team in my neighbourhood. We are shorthanded like many community teams and would really appreciate help. Our next session is Saturday afternoon. We have a 45 minute practice followed by a game. I can give you more details at our 1:1 on Thursday.</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I’m looking forward to seeing you,</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Azumane Asahi</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He deletes and retypes <i>I’m looking forward to seeing you </i>several times, agonizing about coming on too strong. Finally he leaves it in and hits send before he can take it out again. Email gone he shuts down his computer and turns on the TV to a pre-recorded J-League game, curry on his lap. He doesn’t have a dining room table in his tiny apartment, just a small fold-up card table that’s currently tucked away against the wall, and his laziness has led to an extreme bachelor approach to meals. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tries to ignore the fact that he’s waiting for his phone to buzz with a notification of a reply. It comes nearly an hour later. It’s just one line. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>You’re a great guy, Azumane-san.</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His ears turn red as he reads the words, and stay so long after he’s put his phone down and turned back to the TV.</span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>  <span>***</span></p></div></div><span>His first 1:1 the next day is with Kageyama Tobio. Technically it should have been with Hinata, but of course the short red-head doesn’t need tutoring and so ceded his spot to his boyfriend. Asahi doesn’t mind; although the two of them clearly have little difficulty communicating, it would be ideal if it was in a format where they could both be clear with each other. Somehow, he imagines they both easily misunderstand each other. </span><p>
  <span>Kageyama is tall and lanky as a runner bean, his dark hair framing his oval face. His expression is what Suga would call resting bitch-face. He takes a seat in front of Asahi’s desk like a toy soldier, limbs stiff and straight, and looks down at the tea in front of him. Slowly he picks it up and takes a sip, clearly feeling it’s expected of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to drink it,” says Asahi with a smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama puts it down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me a little about what you’d like to learn,” Asahi continues. “Clearly you and Hinata-san have gotten by until now without signing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s a stubborn bastard,” says Kageyama, loosening up slightly. “On the court, we understand each other without words – I know what he wants, and he knows what I’m going to do. I can’t explain that, but it works for us. But off the court… He can read lips pretty well, but he interprets what he wants from it. And, when I see the way he can communicate with his sister and his parents, it makes me realise that I haven’t tried hard enough. It’s not fair to place the burden of communicating on him.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you want to talk about that you can’t?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama answers promptly: “Strategy. And a lot of volleyball terms. He struggles with reading English words a bit, and it can make things difficult.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Even straight phonetic spelling should help you then. Many sports terms have no JSL equivalent; they’re simply spelled out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama nods. “Also…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Also?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well. You know. In bed there are things I want to tell him, too. And his focus is pretty poor then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi colours, but maintains his composure. “Of course. I’ve had many couples take this program. I have a file I can send you that will help. We can practice if you like, but often times people prefer to work on bedroom vocabulary on their own.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama nods straightforwardly. “Good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Since you want to focus on volleyball, why don’t we get started discussing yesterday’s game. Did you see it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </i>
  <span>, signs Kageyama.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Good.</span>
  </i>
  <span><i>What did you think of Bokuto’s SERVICE ACE?</i></span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>  <span>***</span></p></div></div><span>In the afternoon Asahi meets again with Suga, and fails to mention that he’s invited Nishinoya to his community game on the weekend. Plenty of time for that if it’s successful.  They chat about everyday things, Asahi providing plenty of topical vocab and correcting grammar here and there. Suga’s fingers are surprisingly fluid with the signs – but then as a setter he’s had plenty of experience. </span><p>
  <i>
    <span>Maria-chan teach me too.</span>
  </i>
  <span> Suga signs simply. <i>She is happy</i>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I’m glad.</span>
  </i>
  <span> replies Asahi. <i>You should teach the class. CLASS</i>, he spells out when Suga looks puzzled. The setter blinks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Too new!</span>
  </i>
  <span> He exclaims, making a face. <i>But maybe… </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I can help you prepare a lesson.</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga nods thoughtfully. <i>Thank you.</i></span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>  <span>***</span></p></div></div><span>Asahi goes home that night and looks up Kageyama on Youtube, then Instagram. His Gram seems to be run primarily by Hinata; most of the pictures are of Kageyama looking either hot or surly or both, occasionally with Hinata grinning beside him. There’s no question that he’s a phenomenal setter, will be on the Olympic team with Oikawa Tooru. </span><p>
  <span>Curious now and feeling slightly emboldened, Asahi looks up Nishinoya. Whatever his social media handle Asahi can’t find him, but he does find Nishinoya’s school’s website and sleuths through the pages until he finds an entry about the volleyball teams. There are some pictures from the fall Qualifiers, and in a couple Asahi spots Nishinoya in the corner, sitting on the bench beside Tanaka. He looks drawn and grey, his expression intense as he watches the game. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pictures were taken almost three months ago, at a time when Nishinoya was doubtless still learning to cope with his new impediment, his new reality. It’s amazing how far he’s come since then. It’s amazing that he kept actively coaching. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi pulls out his phone and texts the head of his team: <i>Found a new member. Not ready to play yet, but skilled in coaching and drills. I think he’ll be a great fit. He’s speech-impaired but has adapted well. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns back to the photos. Such a legacy of pain, and of strength. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants to help Nishinoya on his journey to grow stronger. And maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll find something more along the way. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Calling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Thursday’s a big day. Two beginner 1:1s and the beginner’s group session in the evening on top of the rest of his work. Asahi rises and showers, then brushes his teeth and cleans up his beard. His long hair he puts up while it’s still wet, damp locks slick over his fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His very few past romantic encounters haven’t given him much confidence in his appearance. He’s big and buff, and he knows that plenty of people find that sexy. But the beard and the hair tend to be a turn-off, a signal that he stands slightly outside social norms. He gloomily feels he’s been appreciated for his body but not his looks, or his personality for that matter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A vague unsettled feeling in his gut tells him he’s still worried about it; is worried about what it is Nishinoya sees in him. Asahi’s not interested in a relationship where he’s expected to be the dominant partner, expected because of his size to take command and play the part of the confident top. It’s not who he is, or who he wants to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His only hope lies in the fact that Nishinoya clearly has a vast capacity to surprise. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p><span>***</span></p></div></div><span>Yamaguchi comes in first thing in the morning, sleepy-eyed and loosely dressed in a rumpled shirt. He works at an electrical appliance company, Asahi remembers, probably on a later shift. The tea seems to wake him up a bit, he blinks and sits up straighter. </span><p>
  <i>
    <span>Good morning,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Asahi, smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Good morning.</span>
  </i>
  <span> <i>Late night,</i> signs Yamaguchi grinning shyly. <i>Practicing with Tsukki.</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Practicing JSL?</span>
  </i>
  <span> Asks Asahi, surprised. Tsukishima doesn’t seem like the kind of person to accommodate others. But that’s an easy judgement to make from the outside. And his signing had been better than a pure beginner. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Yes. Tsukki and I practice all nights.</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>That’s great. For how long?</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Last week.</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Since last week,</span>
  </i>
  <span> suggests Asahi; Yamaguchi nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Since, yes. Before, I practiced alone. But Tsukki is very… </span>
  </i>
  <span>He trails off, considering. <i>He feels…</i> he tries again, mouth twisting as he attempts to articulate his thoughts. <i>He wants me to be okay</i>, he manages, finally. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>That’s good to hear. He seems a very private (PRIVATE) kind of person; I’m glad he’s supporting (SUPPORTING) you.</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>He always has, </span>
  </i>
  <span>replies Yamaguchi, smile strengthening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi nods, and moves the conversation on to recent books they’ve read. In general, he tries to keep these sessions relatively impersonal. Tries not to delve into relationship conversations more than necessary. He has a feeling, though, that he’ll be sorely tested by his second meeting today. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p><span>***</span></p></div></div><span>Asahi agonizes a little over what tea to make for Nishinoya. On the one hand, he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who is picky about tea. On the other hand, maybe he is. And Asahi wants to make a good impression. He finally settles for the small box of first-pick green tea his mother gave him earlier in the year when it came out. It’s too expensive to use often; he saves it for special days. </span><p>
  <span>The colour is a clear, pale green, the tender leaves soft and verdant in the strainer. At home he would have saved them for a second steep; here he tosses them in the garbage. He’s just putting away the strainer when Nishinoya knocks and enters, grinning widely. He makes a casual salute, shoving the door shut behind him with his elbow and dumping himself into the closer of the two chairs. He wriggles out of his coat and sits with it slumped around his hips, his scarf still draped over his shoulders. It looks new but cheap – definitely bought out of sudden necessity rather than with an eye to fashion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi puts the tea out and settles himself, taking a deep breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya already has his phone in his hands. “You really like tea, huh?” he types, the pre-recorded voice making the question sound like a grunt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I find it less abrasive than coffee,” replies Asahi. “But I like a good latte if it’s on offer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Next time, I’ll treat you,” says the flat voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to. I enjoy providing tea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you’d like a latte too, I bet. Sweet? You seem like a pretty sweet kind of guy.” Nishinoya’s grin is wide and wicked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Noya-san…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Too much? Sorry. You’re probably taken, anyway.” He looks off-hand, but his eyes are sharp above the rakish smile on his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi feels the tips of his ears burning. “It’s not that. I… I’m here to teach you, not flirt with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got it. Flirting for after-hours only,” replies Nishinoya, and while he’s still smiling it’s less aggressively suggestive. “Thanks for inviting me to your game, btw. I’m really looking forward to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You coach a high school team?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep. Used to be the girls’ team coach, but since this,” he gestures at his throat, “they’ve put me on with Ryuu coaching the boys’ team. They thought I needed support. Or the kids did. Or something.” His jaw is tense, eyes bright with a vicious mix of emotions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds really difficult; I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s nice to spend more time with Ryuu, but I miss having my own scope.” Nishinoya shrugs, thin shoulders rising and falling as he takes a breath. “We’ll get it sorted out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, we’re looking forward to having you – we’ve got some great players.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Including you, I bet.” Nishinoya’s smiling again, his earlier frustration forgotten, so Asahi lets it go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shall we get started with practice?” he asks. “It sounds like a lot of what you’d like to work on will be specific to coaching volleyball. Anything else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s good for now. Someday, I’d like to talk like you and Hinata-san – you know, so smoothly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It just takes work,” replies Asahi. “After the beginner’s program, there is further training available here at the Centre.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With you?” asks Nishinoya immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi swallows. “Yes, some of it with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something to look forward to.” Nishinoya slurps down his tea, slaps the cup down on the table, and raises his hands. <i>Start?</i> </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Okay,</span>
  </i>
  <span> replies Asahi. <i>Tell me about your team.</i></span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p><span>***</span></p></div></div><span>Nishinoya’s vocabulary is eclectic. He’s done a good job memorizing the phonetic alphabet, getting confused only a couple of times when spelling something out. He has a surprisingly deep knowledge already of volleyball terminology; his day-to-day language is less firm. He has a tendency to wander off down rabbit holes in conversation, his brain making leaps Asahi can’t follow. </span><p>
  <span>It’s fun. Usually Asahi finds the 1:1s boring; at the beginner level they’re mostly regurgitating polite conversation – just an endless cycle of greetings, weather, news and occasionally celebrity gossip. With Nishinoya they jump between spiker timing and space exploration and body farms, the bizarre topics straining even Asahi’s vocabulary. Nishinoya always somehow manages to bring it back to volleyball, but the course he sets is by no means a straight line. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles wide and often, his grins ranging from polite to wolfish, but he doesn’t laugh. Once when Asahi catches him out with a tough question about his thoughts on the most recent updates to the libero position’s scope the small man tilts his head to his side and opens his mouth to reply before he catches himself. He smiles to cover up the mistake, but it’s a raw and grief-tinged twist of his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It makes Asahi want to get up and pull him into a hug, to offer him the strength and the health he’s done nothing to earn. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Sorry,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Nishinoya. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Don’t be sorry. You’re doing an incredible job. </span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Credible? </span>
  </i>
  <span>Repeats Nishinoya clumsily.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>INCREDIBLE. Or as Hinata would say, “kick-ass.”</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya’s smile softens, and Asahi feels something in his chest loosen. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p><span>***</span></p></div></div><span>At the end of the lesson, Nishinoya pulls out his phone to finish up. Asahi writes out the directions to the gym for their practice on Saturday. “2:00pm,” he says, handing over the sticky note to Nishinoya. </span><p>
  <span>“I’ll be there!” texts Nishinoya, folding the sticky and putting it in his wallet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One other thing,” says Asahi. “It’s about your text-to-voice program. One of the players on my team works in software development, and I believe his company produces some voice-to-text and text-to-voice programs. If you’re okay with it, I can introduce you to him; maybe he would have some advice about something a little less…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Terrible?” says the program, blandly, while Nishinoya smiles wryly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, that,” agrees Asahi.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great! Thanks, coach. And I meant it about that latte. My treat next time.” He stands before Asahi can protest, hitching on his coat and glancing outside. “See you this pm. Onwards and upwards!” he texts and shoots out the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi is left alone in his office with two empty teacups and a sudden sense of loneliness. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p><span>***</span></p></div></div><span>With the temperature dropping outside, Asahi brings his tiny mediocre space heater downstairs early and appropriates a second one from Shimizu’s empty office. Even on full blast they don’t do much to heat the large room; Asahi turns on the crinkling fireplace for all the image of cozy warmth that it can offer. At this rate it may snow before December, the cold unseasonal. </span><p>
  <span>Suga arrives with red cheeks, huffing on his hands. “Daichi’s on his way; he should be here in a few,” he says, sidling over to the space heater and stretching out his long fingers. “I’ll vote in anyone if it means this is the year the city decides to install heaters in the classroom,” he groans. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It builds character,” says Asahi, uncertainly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It builds chilblains,” replies Suga, just as Kageyama and Hinata come barreling in through the door, involved in a heated argument. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sensei,” bleats Hinata, apparently immune to correction, as they crowd over to Asahi. “I wanna put us on the Gram!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He is not Instagramming this,” replies Kageyama repressively, arms crossed over his chest. Hinata’s not watching him though, and misses the denial completely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll be great exposure! And good advertisement for you! Kageyama’s got 15,000 followers, and they don’t all come for his thighs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell,” begins Kageyama, but Asahi cuts him off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Centre has a no social media policy for its programs, Hinata-san. If you want to post about your experiences with us you’re welcome to so long as you don’t reference others without their consent. But no pictures or vlogging.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sensei,” he whines, deflating. “This is the first time someone’s actually taken a course for me. It’s special,” he says, and behind him Kageyama blushes suddenly. “I wanna share that!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tsukishima and Yamaguchi arrive just as he finishes his plea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Share what?” asks Tsukishima, speaking up for Yamaguchi’s benefit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Our group experience on his Instagram,” Suga fills in, Hinata facing the wrong way to notice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck no,” says Tsukishima. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s against policy, Tsukishima-san,” informs Asahi. “Sorry, Hinata-san.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hinata turns and slinks over to a chair, slumping down into it limply. The others take their chairs and Asahi’s just glancing at the clock as Nishinoya, Tanaka, and Daichi all hurry in together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Made it!” pants Tanaka, throwing himself into a chair. “That last red light was a killer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for hurrying,” says Asahi honestly, closing the door behind them partially in the interests of privacy and partially to keep the faint heat emanating from the space heaters in. “I’m sorry, the room is cold this time of year,” he adds as he takes a seat himself between Daichi and Yamaguchi. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I brought hand warmers!” exclaims Hinata, producing the plastic packs from his pockets. <i>Can’t sign with cold hands,</i> he adds. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Let’s get started,</span>
  </i>
  <span> begins Asahi. <i>Who would like to start?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Ooo, me!</span>
  </i>
  <span> Hinata squirms in his seat, feet hanging off the floor. <i>What’s the most embarrassing thing that happened to you in high school volleyball?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>That might not be appropriate, Hinata-san,</span>
  </i>
  <span> cautions Asahi. He then repeats, <i>EMBARRASSING volleyball thing in HIGH SCHOOL.</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>The others don’t seem concerned, though, and Hinata’s already continuing. <i>I’ll start! I puked in the bus on the way to my first game!</i> He mimes puking; the others smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yamaguchi leans forward shyly. <i>I couldn’t do my first PINCH serve. Served into the NET.</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I serve into Suga,</span>
  </i>
  <span> says Daichi, grinning; Suga sighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I run into NET,</span>
  </i>
  <span> says Tanaka, laughing at the memory and rubbing the back of his head producing a rough sandpaper sound.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I served. I ran,</span>
  </i>
  <span> corrects Asahi, providing the short-hand for past tense to apply to all present tense verbs. <i>Tsukishima-san?</i> He asks, prompting the blond to speak. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Ball to my face,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Tsukishima, deadpan. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>That happens to everyone! You’re stingy, Tsukishima-san. Stingy-shima!</span>
  </i>
  <span> Signs Hinata, gleefully. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Stingy…shima?</span>
  </i>
  <span> Signs Yamaguchi, confused. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Never mind,</span>
  </i>
  <span> sighs Asahi. <i>Sugawara-san, please</i>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suga thankfully takes up the mantle. <i>I spilled red SPORT DRINK on myself on PHOTO day.</i> He mimes spilling the drink, opening a pretend bottle and dumping it down his front. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I …</span>
  </i>
  <span> Nishinoya mimes rolling with his hands, looking to Asahi.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Rolled? </span>
  </i>
  <span>Suggests Asahi.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I rolled into many girls on SIDE LINE. </span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Embarrassing? </span>
  </i>
  <span>Asks Tanaka. <i>Or kick-ass?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>You are right. Kick-ass!</span>
  </i>
  <span> Nishinoya grins. <i>Kageyama-san – you!</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Oh, I know what it is,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Hinata smiling. <i>C’mon, spill</i>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kageyama gives him a deeply unimpressed look. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I’ll help you with the big words,</span>
  </i>
  <span> adds Hinata. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kageyama sighs. <i>We won PREFECTURAL QUALIFIERS in 3 year. I asked Hinata to DATE me on the court. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Not so embarrassing,</span>
  </i>
  <span> says Suga. <i>Sweet, really. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>He said no,</span>
  </i>
  <span> says Kageyama.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Oh no!</span>
  </i>
  <span> Yamaguchi looks on wide-eyed. <i>Why?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>It was Bakageyama’s fault, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Hinata. <i>He was mumbling and I misread him. He said ‘Go out with me,’ and I read ‘Go bow without me.’</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi repeats his explanation more slowly, spelling out the difficult words. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>So what now?</span>
  </i>
  <span> Asks Nishinoya, leaning forward eagerly. He looks like all he needs is a bag of popcorn to be fully enjoying the drama. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>What then,</span>
  </i>
  <span> suggests Asahi; no one’s paying attention to him, they’re all watching Hinata. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>He hid from me for 2 days, and then I dragged it out of him. </span>
  </i>
  <span>Catching Asahi’s eye, Hinata repeats himself and spells out the new words. <i>And then I said yes, </i>he adds. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>HAPPY ENDING, </span>
  </i>
  <span>says Tanaka, wiping away a fake tear. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Probably should have made him take a class starting then, though, </span>
  </i>
  <span>reflects Hinata. Kageyama glares. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Thanks everyone,</span>
  </i>
  <span> breaks in Asahi before the conversation can get any more personal. <i>Why don’t we talk about our favourite matches? </i></span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p><span>***</span></p></div></div><span>Asahi’s used to groups who try to go too personal too fast, but this one feels like it’s working to set a new record. The discussion of favourite matches leads to a conversation about volleyball crushes that quickly descends into who has the hottest body; when he redirects the conversation to rule updates with the idea that they can discuss positions and regulations it’s quickly derailed into an assessment of best spike expressions as compared to likely cum faces. </span><p>
  <span>On the bright side, none of them seem to be in the least embarrassed by the direction the conversation seems to be heading and they’re all participating relatively evenly. Hinata seems to be egging the delinquency on, supporting Nishinoya and Tanaka who are enthusiastic ring-leaders. Suga’s clearly decided to go along for the ride and Daichi and Yamaguchi seem to be mildly interested; Kageyama and Tsukishima simply seem resigned to the madness. </span>
</p><p><span>By the end of the session Nishinoya’s on first-name terms with Hinata, Yamaguchi and Daichi, learning to sign the kanji for their names. Asahi has the sense that if he weren’t the instructor he would have been included in that group as well. He wonders what it would feel like to see </span><span>旭</span> <span>attempted by Nishinoya’s fingers. He takes it as a bad sign that he wants to find out.  </span></p><p>
  <span>Before he loses any further control, he wraps up for the day at the next natural break in the conversation (the completion of which professional player would make the best JPop star, Kageyama included. Oikawa Tooru is the consensus.) <i>Thanks everyone for today’s session. Next class is Tuesday evening. I will see you there. </i>They start chattering, some still signing along brokenly as they speak. Asahi unplugs the fireplace and the space heaters, wrapping up the cords in preparation for carrying them back upstairs, and then cleans off the chalkboard messages left by the previous group and tidies up the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me help,” says Nishinoya’s phone’s bland voice. Asahi turns and finds the smaller man behind him, smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um, you could help me bring the space heaters upstairs?” he suggests. Nishinoya nods and they grab one each, trooping up the stairs. “You’re getting the basics down well, Noya-san,” he says as they climb. “You bring a lot of enthusiasm to the group.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With his hands full, Nishinoya can’t respond; he nods instead. They make it to the hallway and head down towards Shimizu’s office. “In here,” Asahi says, pushing her door open, and Nishinoya drops his off and pulls out his phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re great guys. It’s a fun group. Shouyou’s really amazing,” he types. “But there’s so much to learn.” He throws his arms out, emphasizing the size of the challenge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve only just started,” replies Asahi smiling. “And you’re welcome to meet outside the group to practice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great idea.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi puts his heater down in his office and they go back downstairs. Hinata has his phone out; he looks up when they return. “Noya-san, I’m adding everyone on Facebook! What’s yours?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya signs <i>Nishinoya Youbet, </i>Asahi watching casually. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few minutes later they break up for the evening, Asahi escorting the group upstairs. He waits until everyone’s left, then returns to his office. Rather than locking up and heading home right away though, he wakes up his computer and brings up Facebook. He logs in with his half-dead account, now just old memories of friends from Miyagi, and looks up Nishinoya. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With students doubtless on FB he hasn’t added his place of employment or location and is using a semi-pseudonym, but it’s a public account. Feeling a little guilty about prying all the same, Asahi brings up Nishinoya’s wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The top posts are casual everyday fare, shares of Youtube volleyball videos and the fall Tokyo qualifier brackets. There are some memes and a couple of photo posts from drinking parties. </span>
</p><p><span>But as Asahi scrolls back in time, the posts grow darker. <i>Six months without cigs!</i> Reads one, with a lot of likes and hearts. Before that, <i>Six-month check-up clear!</i> With even more likes and hearts. But beyond that there are frustrated posts about his lack of progress with speech language therapy, about his failure to be able to vocalize. <i>5 months in I’m still text-only </i></span>(Ò<span>﹏</span>Ó)<span>, says one. <i>Bad day – no progress</i>, says another.</span></p><p>
  <span>Beneath them is a grainy phone video with only the words: <i>Saving for posterity because there won’t be any more</i>. Asahi clicks it and it starts – it’s Nishinoya in a karaoke parlour, mic in hand, face shadowed from the poor light and the bad video quality. There’s tinny music playing in the background; something old from the 80s – Himuro Kyosuke, Asahi thinks. Then Nishinoya’s queue arrives and he starts singing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice is strong but mellow, a well-controlled and rich tenor. He sings with complete confidence, grinning slightly: </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>With your voice strained and your hands gripping tightly</span><br/>
Waiting for the time when your destiny is sure to change<br/>
With the faint power of a tiny love<br/>
Always waiting for your sadness to be embraced
  </i>
</p><p>
  <span>The video stops, short clip finished. Asahi looks at the top comment; it’s from Tanaka and is just a crying face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last time Nishinoya sang. The last time he ever will. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feeling like some kind of prying ghoul, Asahi shuts down Facebook, turns off the lights, and goes home. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>旭 - Asahi</p><p>The song Noya sings is Calling by Himuro Kyosuke.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Answer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Crises of confidence aren’t new to Asahi. In high school it felt like he had one every week – existential angst about his life goals, his role as the team ace, his sexuality. When he started at the Centre he ran up against a mountainous heap of uncertainty regarding cultural appropriation: as an instructor without speech or hearing impediments, was it even right for him to be teaching others about a culture they were part of and he wasn’t? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since then he’s found himself a comfortable place to settle in, a role where he only occasionally feels pangs of insecurity. But now all of a sudden he’s tumbled back down the well of seeping, sucking self-doubt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It started with Nishinoya’s FB account. The account he had snooped into unasked and had uncovered a vulnerability that felt too personal. Overnight his insecurities spiral, his guilty conscience tossing in every anxiety and uncertainty he’s felt in dealing with the smaller man: enjoying the compliments, envying his confidence, inviting him to the game on Saturday. He’s an instructor for God’s sake, what’s he doing inviting a student to his personal volleyball team? And such a new student at that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After hours of digging himself deeper and deeper into misery, of self-doubt and self-blame, he comes up against the root of it: he’s falling for Nishinoya. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi doesn’t do lighthearted crushes. He finds men attractive, admires fit bodies and handsome faces and decisive personalities. But when he falls he falls hard, and picking up the pieces after the inevitable smash is agonizing. It’s fine and good for Daichi and Suga to tell him he should find someone, they found each other without ever looking elsewhere. Without ever experiencing a crushing break-up. But Asahi’s been there before, he’s been wrung up and thrown out like a used paper towel, and coming back is <i>hard</i>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Nishinoya feels special. Feels like someone he shouldn’t make mistakes with, someone he shouldn’t subject to his spinelessness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At 3:30am Asahi turns over, groans, and buries his face in his pillow. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p><span>***</span></p></div></div><span>Friday passes slowly. He meets with Kageyama again and they discuss everyday topics, Asahi’s sleep-deprived mind occasionally wandering. Kageyama doesn’t seem to notice; of all the students he’s struggling the most with grammar and Asahi suggests some additional supports for him.</span><p>
  <i>
    <span>Always bad school,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Kageyama dolefully. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Keep trying,</span>
  </i>
  <span> replies Asahi, smiling encouragingly. <i>It will get easier. I’m sure Hinata-san will help.</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>He so fast. </span>
  </i>
  <span>Kageyama shakes his head, looking lost. <i>We both … IMPATIENT. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi has known other impatient young men like him, brought along to classes by their partner in the hope of increased communication only to have to deal with them failing to learn and ultimately dropping out. He hopes Kageyama won’t go down the same path. He and Hinata seem to have a deeper relationship; he can only hope it will be enough. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p><span>***</span></p></div></div><span>Saturday. Asahi wakes up from another fitful sleep feeling a growing sense of dread. He still hasn’t found a way to marry up his romantic interest with his intense doubts about romance in general and Nishinoya in particular. His stomach is weak at breakfast, his nerves bad – he jumps when a neighbour slams a door, and flinches when his phone buzzes. </span><p>
  <span>He picks it up to see a new text from Suga: <i>Want to have drinks after class on Tuesday?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi stares miserably at the text. He’s going downhill fast, he knows himself well enough to know that. He opens the message and replies: <i>I think I need an intervention.</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not the first time. Daichi and Suga have seen him through several previous crises, have talked him off the ledge of dramas that seemed fatally high to him – and probably about kerb-level to any normal human being. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Should I call?</span>
  </i>
  <span> Texts back Suga, immediately. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>No. It’s… </span>
  </i>
  <span>he pauses, hesitating about coming clean on his invitation to Nishinoya to the game. <i>I may have over-committed to something, </i>he replies. <i>And now I’m terrified I’m going to mess it up. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>First, deep breath, </span>
  </i>
  <span>comes Suga’s reply. A moment later: <i>Remember, you’re a smart, rational adult. You have a stellar history of never over-committing to anything. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>This time it’s real</span>
  </i>
  <span>. He stares mournfully at his half-eaten miso, the tofu bobbing just beneath the surface. <i>I feel like I’m about to take advantage of someone.</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a pause, and then his phone starts ringing. Suga. He stares at it for a moment and then accepts the call. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Asahi, sweetie,” says Suga, “this had better not be about Nishinoya.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t <i>know</i>,” replies Asahi wretchedly, thinking of the Facebook post. Of Nishinoya’s crooked, pain-filled smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Asahi,” says Suga patiently, “He could, and probably would, eat you alive. You are not a threat to him. It’s kind that you’re worried, but he is clearly ready to put himself out there. Don’t make this into a bigger deal than it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s such a vulnerable time, Suga –” begins Asahi. Suga cuts him off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everyone copes with loss differently. It’s not up to you to decide he’s not ready if he’s decided he is. That’s just you pushing your values onto him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi swallows. “I’m such a coward, Suga. I’m afraid of putting myself out there because I don’t want to get hurt, and then I start becoming afraid that I’ll hurt someone else. At this point, I’m so twisted up I don’t even know what I’m afraid of anymore. Maybe I should just commit to being your third wheel forever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a sigh from the other end of the line. “Look. Here’s what you’re going to do. Ask Nishinoya out. Something non-committal, like coffee. Talk to him like a normal human being and find out what he wants. If you’re still afraid, share those fears – but don’t catastrophize. It’s normal to be worried about over-committing up front, especially when your past relationships haven’t ended well. He’ll think that’s normal. If you’re not looking for the same thing, no hard feelings. But you can’t keep hiding from relationships forever, Asahi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t I?” asks Asahi, somewhat wistfully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Daichi and I want to see you happy. You deserve to be happy. And you’re not the kind of person who thrives on his own. I know you struggle with trying to meet people – that’s why this is a great opportunity for you. Maybe it won’t work out, but maybe it will. You won’t know until you try. Whatever happens, you’re the one at risk of being hurt, not Nishinoya. So be confident and communicate clearly, and that way you’ll both be on sure footing. Okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” says Asahi reluctantly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can do this, Ace.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks Suga.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me know how it goes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The line goes dead. Asahi puts down his phone and turns back to his miso. Slowly, he begins to eat. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p><span>***</span></p></div></div><span>Asahi gets to the gym early that afternoon, before the basketball team on the court has cleared off. Not all their players have the time to help out with set up and take down of equipment, so he likes to arrive early to help when he can. Aone’s already there reading a beaten-up paperback by the gym door; he looks up at Asahi’s appearance and nods before going back to his book. Kozume and Terushima arrive together, Terushima blathering away about a recent restaurant find while Kozume plays on his phone. </span><p>
  <span>The basketball team is just cleaning up and winching up the net when Nishinoya arrives. He’s wearing an orange puffer coat over a tracksuit; Asahi wonders whether he feels the cold more given his lack of bulk. The orange suits him – bright and lively. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Hi coach!</span>
  </i>
  <span> He signs, seeing Asahi and grinning broadly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi feels his knees go a little weak. <i>Hi</i>, he replies. <i>How are you?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Great! I get see you!</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I’ll introduce you,</span>
  </i>
  <span> he signs, glancing over at the others. Terushima’s watching them with curiosity; Kozume and Aone are both still engrossed in their own worlds. “Um,” says Asahi; Aone looks up, Kozume does not. “This is Nishinoya-san – he goes by Noya-san. He’s a high school volleyball coach, and has played libero. Noya-san, this is our setter Kozume-san, our middle blocker Aone-san, and our other wing spiker Terushima-san. Noya-san communicates with sign language or his phone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya waves at them, then digs out his phone. “Nice to meet ya. I don’t want to muscle in on your team, but if I can help out let me know! I can’t play right now. Not sure about the future yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do we need to sign?” asks Terushima uncertainly, glancing from Asahi to Nishinoya. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya shakes his head. “Nope. I can hear you fine. Just can’t talk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We don’t have a libero,” rumbles Aone, carefully folding down a corner of his book and closing it. “Perhaps you could join us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi feels a pang of anxiety, but Nishinoya’s still smiling. “Maybe in a while,” his phone replies for him. “We’ll see. Probably not fully.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The basketball club files out, and Terushima grabs Kozume and drags him into the gym. “Let’s go!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi and Nishinoya follow along, Asahi leading the way to the equipment closet and bringing out one of the net posts. “Could you help me with the net?” he asks, and Nishinoya nods. Terushima and Kozume grab the other one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time they have the nets set up, Kinoshita and Matsukawa have shown up. Kuroo only comes some of the time, and Kindaichi hardly ever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you join warm-up?” asks Asahi, shedding his coat and jacket, and Nishinoya nods again and sheds his as well. It’s the first time Asahi has seen him without a track jacket on, the first time he can see the thinness of Nishinoya’s chest, the delicate collar-bones, the long sturdy lines of his forearms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The small, sucking hole of the stoma. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite his diminutive stature Asahi suspects that he’s fit and firm beneath the white shirt reading Fall Seven Times Stand Up Eight. He’s certainly flexible, able to make stretches Asahi shies away from as they warm up on the floor. Asahi finds himself watching Nishinoya as he bends pliantly, observing the graceful arc of his arm and the soft downy hair at the nape of his neck. Asahi has always felt himself to be all arms and legs – awkwardly proportioned and uncomfortable because of it. Nishinoya seems perfectly at home with his body, grinning up at Asahi from beneath his elbow as he stretches down towards his toes, lithe and languid as a cat. It makes Asahi’s stomach twist with latent desire, a feeling he hasn’t had in a long time.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, that’s enough,” says Matsukawa, clapping his hands. Terrifyingly Terushima had almost become their captain until saner heads prevailed and Matsukawa volunteered to take on the role. “Pairs serving – receiving practice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll go with Aone and Kinoshita,” says Kozume quietly as they all stand, giving Asahi a side-long glance. Asahi usually warms up with Kinoshita. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” he says awkwardly, wondering what Kozume’s thinking, and fetches a ball from the basket. “Okay with you, Noya-san?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya gives him a thumb’s up and takes his place on the far side of the court. Asahi starts out with a slow standing serve, afraid to put too much pressure on Nishinoya, which he immediately realizes was a mistake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya receives his pathetic serve like he’d been born to do it. He steps to the side at a relaxed pace, brings his arms together in one smooth motion, and bumps the ball back towards the net at a perfect angle. Asahi feels like he just suggested t-ball to a pro-league batter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya produces his phone from his pocket while Asahi comes forward to collect the ball. “I’m not made of glass,” says the dull voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi colours. “Sorry – that was dumb.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya shakes his head, grinning. “But this time show me what you can do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi steps back, takes a run-up and leaps, smashing his palm into the ball.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya takes a quick step back, arms coming together, and receives it like it was nothing. His form is amazing, his <i>timing </i>is amazing. And the part of Asahi’s mind that isn’t busy tallying up the ways in which his receive was perfect is busy pointing out that the wicked glee on his face as he receives the ball is downright sexy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice receive,” says Kozume quietly beside him; Nishinoya smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ready to go again?” asks Asahi, retrieving the ball. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya leans in, arms up. Like he’s been ready his whole life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi serves. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p><span>***</span></p></div></div><span>They do a lap of dives afterwards which Nishinoya sits out on, then spiking practice – Nishinoya assists Kozume as a second setter. After that they play some 3-on-3 while Nishinoya refs. He has a small buzzer in his pocket that he uses in place of a whistle, the sound just as abrasive but not requiring him to blow. </span><p>
  <span>Their opponents start filing in as they finish up the 3-on-3, Asahi grabbing his towel and drying off the sweat on the sidelines; Nishinoya coming over to stand next to him. “What do you think?” he asks. “About us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya grabs his phone. “Good! Better than expected. Strong blocks, strong attacking. Not so strong on serves or receives, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could definitely teach us a lot,” says Asahi. “Both as a coach and a libero. I’ve never seen anyone as fluid as you outside the pro league.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Flatterer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi flushes and swallows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay to flirt,” adds Nishinoya, grinning wolfishly. “Your spike is amazing. So strong; great form. Great body,” he adds, smiling slyly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um. Thanks,” manages Asahi through his suddenly-tight throat. Nishinoya slaps him on the back, typing with his free hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Live a little, Azumane-san” the voice reads. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>From across the court someone claps; they both look up. The teams are assembling. Asahi brings Nishinoya over with them; they’ve each got only 6 players, usually they play without a ref. “Any problems with Nishinoya-san refereeing?” he asks. No one raises any and they split up, Nishinoya heading to the sideline with his buzzer to act as whistle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya’s clearly used to refereeing; he is diligent about timing and calls and does the scoreboard as well. He’s completely professional, calling out of bound balls and mistakes with impunity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet, Asahi feels hyperaware of his eyes on him as he plays. It’s been a while since he played for a crowd, since anyone was watching him with anything more than absent interest. He’s gotten a bit sloppy since leaving high school, he’ll admit. Has let his form slide and his timing suffer. But today he plays like an ace, leaping for every toss and spiking the ball dead. Each time he hears the buzzer after he makes a point, he almost believes Nishinoya is cheering for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reads a happy acceptance in his teammates’ eyes except for Kozume’s where he sees a terrifying kind of understanding. The setter is giving him more tosses than usual, and he has the awful sense that he’s trying to help Asahi show off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet, not awful enough for Asahi to ask him to stop.  </span>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p><span>***</span></p></div></div><span>They win 2 sets to 1, a good round match in which they play well although not spectacularly. Only Asahi’s at his best, but he doesn’t begrudge the others their moderated effort – this isn’t an official game, just a practice. Everyone helps in taking down the equipment, and Asahi guiltily peels off a bit early to join Nishinoya from where he’s standing on the sidelines. He’s back in his track jacket, the collar zipped up high – it’s chilly in the gym. </span><p>
  <span>“Great job,” he types. “You really shone out there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi smiles. “Thanks. And thanks for reffing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No problem – it was fun.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi catches Kozume’s eye from across the court and motions him over; the setter trots across at a gentle pace. “Asahi-san?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Noya-san uses a text-to-voice program, but it’s not very good. I wondered if you had any advice?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kozume holds out his hand. “Can I see?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya hands over his phone and he scrolls through it. “Oh, this is just the basic Android support app. It’s cheap but useless. There’s a lot better on the market. We make a good one – Voice Over. And there are a couple other decent ones out there as well. Speak Free, and Sound Wave are both decent. Ours has voices you can choose from – male and female, and a few different ranges. Sounds like you’re using the Siri special.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya nods, grimacing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it’s pretty bad. Here.” He opens a notepad document and starts typing. “I’ll list a few options. I’d recommend ours, of course, but you should do some research. They’re not cheap, but I would think it’d be worth it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Thanks, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Nishinoya; Asahi interprets for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No problem. Good luck. See you next week, Asahi-san.” He hands back the phone and nods to them, then heads over to pick up his coat. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>What now?</span>
  </i>
  <span> Signs Nishinoya. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi swallows. “Coffee?” he asks, nervously. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Perfect.</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="center"><p><span>***</span></p></div></div><span>There’s a hipster coffee shop near the community gym, all exposed concrete and unfinished ceilings, but the music is low and at this time of the afternoon it’s mostly empty. </span><p>
  <span>“I’ll buy you that latte,” types Nishinoya, and before Asahi can argue he steps up to do so. They wait for the drinks, then head over to a pair of armchairs in the corner with a small table in between. Nishinoya settles into his chair and takes a sip. He then puts it down and starts typing. “With a little coaching your team could really grow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We all played in high school, but we’ve gotten a little rusty. No one to make us work for it. Kozume-san’s boyfriend comes sometimes and he gets on us to try harder, but the rest of us are pretty slack.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya raises his eyebrows humorously. “You? Slack? You seem the hard-working type.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can get lazy. And I’m not good at chivvying the other guys. Matsukawa’s an alright captain, but he doesn’t have the authority either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you want help, I’d be happy to,” types Nishinoya. “You really do need to work on your receiving. Or find some defensive specialists. Ideally both.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re over-endowed with spikers,” agrees Asahi. “If you did want to help out, I know it could make a big difference. But I don’t want to impose…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya takes a drink, then returns to typing. “Azumane-san, if I help your team, it’s you I’d do it for.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Asahi replies softly. “That’s what makes me nervous. You hardly know me at all. I’m… I’m not brave and confident like you, Noya-san. I let people down. I don’t mean to, but it happens. And you’re special. I don’t want to let you down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you saying you think too badly of yourself to let me go out with you?” There’s of course no tone to the automated voice, but Nishinoya looks curious rather than disgusted, which is the reaction Asahi’s used to when it comes to his spinelessness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um. Well. No. I think…” he takes a breath. “I have good qualities too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi boggles, and Nishinoya, smiling gently now, types out: “Tell me why I should like you, Azumane-san.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess… I’m kind, and patient, and I really, really want the best for you Noya-san.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. You don’t think I can see all that? I saw it the first time I met you. And yeah, I saw that you’re nervous and that you don’t have a lot of confidence. But with your size and skill, I bet you were your team’s ace.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi nods, eyes lowered as though admitting to an indiscretion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can see the strength you have when you’re on the court playing to impress. You think I didn’t notice that you were the only one out there giving it his all? And it’s not just in volleyball – I can see it when you sit through an hour of me rambling about moon landings and police procedurals and keep teaching me the whole time. I couldn’t do that – I would have peaced out at minute 5. Fuck my fingers are tired,” he says suddenly, pausing and stretching his fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Noya-san…”</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I want to try,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Nishinoya, dropping his phone into his lap and staring hopefully at Asahi. <i>You and me. Let’s try.</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You hardly know me,” says Asahi helplessly.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>You give me a voice,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Nishinoya, slow and careful. <i>Let me choose. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi takes his courage in both hands and smiles weakly, stomach twisted in knots. <i>Okay. We’ll try</i>. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>七転八起 - Fall 7 times get up 8</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The Shape of His Name</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Nishinoya puts his phone on the side table and stands, abruptly grabbing the back of his armchair and shoving it around until it’s at a 90 degree angle to Asahi’s, the armrests touching. He throws himself back into the seat and picks up his phone again in one hand, his other resting on the armrest. It feels like an invitation. Asahi swallows and places his own beside it, their pinkies not quite touching, his heart racing. His hand is more than three centimeters bigger than Nishinoya’s, his fingers thick and blunt-tipped compared to Nishinoya’s slender digits. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya pretends not to notice, busy texting one-handed. Waiting for Asahi to make the first move. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me about yourself,” the bland female voice reads. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s not much to tell,” replies Asahi, heartrate slowing gradually. He can do this. This is just small talk. He makes a living teaching people to make small talk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You teach because of your sister,” types Nishinoya; Asahi glances at him, surprised he remembered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. After high school I didn’t have a lot of direction. I thought about clothes design but it’s hard to break into that and I didn’t have any contacts. Then Ayumi graduated. Seeing how hard her life became out in the real world… it made me angry. Very angry. For twelve years she was in special ed classes with a JSL-fluent teacher, and the next day no one could understand her or wanted to. There were her friends in the deaf community of course, but it wasn’t enough.” He realises his hands have fisted, his knees drawn up tight, and consciously relaxes. Nishinoya’s watching him with sharp, clear eyes. “I decided that I had the skills to do something about it, so I <i>should </i>do something about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And here you are,” puts in Nishinoya. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi smiles awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to sound like a crusader. But it’s important.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya nods once. “I know.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a world of emotion backing those two toneless words, a lightning storm in a bottle. Asahi stretches out his fingertips and wraps them over Nishinoya’s. Just the tiny touch sends a thrill through him, his blood hot under his skin. <i>I’m here</i>, he wants to say. <i>I’m with you</i>. “I’m not good with romance,” he confides instead, giving into his constant need to sabotage himself. “My past relationships have ended badly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?” types Nishinoya calmly, curling his fingers around Asahi’s, the pads of his fingers smooth. It’s not the response he had expected, not the casual dismissal of his worries he had imagined. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” he begins, cautiously. “People expect things from me because I’m big, because of my hair and my face. They expect me to be strong and dominant and sometimes even rough. That’s just not me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya’s fingers press against his. “I can see that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The words give Asahi the strength and reassurance to continue. “It’s like… people know me, but they expect me to be different at home, or in bed. I’m not. I’m a vanilla wimp. And my boyfriends feel disappointed and misled. And they break up with me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And when did you tell them what you want?” asks Nishinoya. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um. Well,” stammers Asahi.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You didn’t – right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hangs his head. “Not really. Not at first. I don’t know how to come out and just <i>say</i> that I’m not the macho, ass-banging stud they want me to be,” he says red-faced.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a soft whoosh of air; Asahi looks up to see Nishinoya laughing, his mouth hanging open soundlessly. He sucks in air only to force it out again, shoulders shaking. His hands are trembling as he texts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Asahi-san, you’re priceless.” He grins. “I can call you Asahi-san, can’t I?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” replies Asahi helplessly, somewhere between bemused and nervous. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look,” types Nishinoya, releasing Asahi’s hand to type faster with both thumbs, “You’ve just gotta be honest. That right there? That was honesty. Don’t be afraid to tell me what you want – or don’t want. That’s what causes problems. Me, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with vanilla – or bottoming. I like to top. And I’m great at being decisive. What I’m bad at is being patient and thinking things through.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think about things too much and don’t act. Just meeting you today was hard,” Asahi confesses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Together then, we should just about be one fully functioning person. Although hopefully not one who likes strawberry Calpis or Taiga dramas.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi smiles gently. “I can live without them.”</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>In their first two group sessions, Asahi had considered that Hinata and Nishinoya had a lot in common – both tiny whirlwinds of energy, hardly able to contain their excitement. But as he and Nishinoya chat about today’s game, he sees that he was wrong. Nishinoya is expressive and highly engaged with their conversation, his face flying through emotions and his mouth constantly twisting into smiles or grimaces. But he has a quality of stillness as well, a sort of comfort with his own body that allows him to seem superbly confident. Despite the fact that his toes are pointed to touch the floor in the over-stuffed armchair he appears perfectly at home there, the way he had on the court. Where Hinata is edgy and constantly thirsty for more, Nishinoya is much more centred, intense but more inwardly focused. </span><p>
  <span>“What?” asks Nishinoya in a break in their conversation, catching Asahi watching him. His sharp-edged amber eyes are amused, his lips curled wryly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi shakes his head, smiling. “Just thinking. I can really see how you would make a perfect libero. So much energy, and so much focus.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want to play together,” types Nishinoya. “Maybe someday…” his expression is wistful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There are plenty of things we <i>can</i> do together,” replies Asahi. Nishinoya raises his eyebrows in a ribald look, and Asahi blushes. “That’s not what I meant.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You haven’t taught us the signs for sex,” says Nishinoya, apparently shameless. He makes a circle of his finger and thumb and puts his other index finger through it, waggling his eyebrows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Only Kageyama asked for them,” sputters Asahi, before realising that was probably privileged information. “I mean – I gave him some links,” he clarifies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you’ll teach me in person,” texts Nishinoya. It’s not a question. He holds Asahi’s eyes, his grin sharp-toothed. Asahi suddenly wants very much to do so, more than he’d ever thought he could. Wants to see Nishinoya shape his pleasure, his desire, with his fingers.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Yes, </span>
  </i>
  <span>he signs, heat curling low in his stomach. <i>I will.</i></span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>They agree to meet up after class on Tuesday; Asahi guiltily making a note to text back Suga and skip out on him and Daichi. They split apart outside the coffee shop in a bitter wind, Nishinoya zipping his collar up to his chin and shoving his hands deep into his pockets before striking out for a near-by subway station. </span><p>
  <span>Asahi checks his phone on the bus on the way to the store to pick up groceries; two texts from Suga checking in on him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I’m fine, </span>
  </i>
  <span>he replies. <i>But I can’t do drinks on Tuesday. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Prior commitment?</span>
  </i>
  <span> replies Suga, a few minutes later. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Date, </span>
  </i>
  <span>texts Asahi. He waits nearly a minute before sending it, staring down at the black characters on his phone. It vibrates a moment later. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>You move fast (</span>
  </i>
  <i>
    <span>≧▽≦</span>
  </i>
  <i>
    <span>). Good job, Ace.</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I just hope I don’t mess it up,</span>
  </i>
  <span> types Asahi. Then, in a sudden fit of irritation with himself and his self-sabotage, he deletes it and replies: <i>Thanks, I’m excited. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He puts his phone away and reaches out to ring the bell for his stop.</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><i></i><br/><span><br/>  <i>So</i><br/></span><span>, signs Suga on Monday morning when he comes into the office, all smiles and apple-red cheeks. <i>Tell me more</i>. </span><p>
  <i>
    <span>This is not a gossip class</span>
  </i>
  <span>, replies Asahi, but weakens his position by having to spell out <i>GOSSIP</i>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga just grins. <i>You have a DATE, Asahi! Big news! Noya, yes?</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Yes,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs back Asahi, sighing. <i>I invited (INVITED) him to my volleyball team. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga blinks. <i>You DO go fast</i>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Actually, he asked first. You should see him, Suga. He’s an amazing libero. He could be pro. His form – his timing… incredible. </span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga’s smile softens, his dark eyes knowing. <i>He is a coach. But I’m happy you are happy.</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I feel very outclassed (OUTCLASSED), </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Asahi. <i>He’s everything I’m not.</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Then same for him, no? </span>
  </i>
  <span>asks Suga with a thoughtful look. Asahi blinks. <i>What you see in him, maybe he sees in you. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I … guess, </span>
  </i>
  <span>manages Asahi, still mulling it over. Nishinoya had said that he found patience and careful decision-making a challenge. Asahi is a master at weighing options and taking his time to come to the best conclusion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Go slow, </span>
  </i>
  <span>suggests Suga. <i>And maybe don’t FOCUS on volleyball. Lots of FRUSTRATION there. Not good for RELATIONSHIP. Have fun together. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi nods. <i>Good advice (ADVICE). Now, let’s talk about you. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga smiles innocently. <i>Me?</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Yes. </span>
  </i>
  <span>He leans forward and pastes on his teaching face.<i> Tell me what you did on the weekend. </i></span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Conscious of Nishinoya’s size and apparent reaction to the cold, Asahi brings in Shimizu’s space heater and sets it up beside the spare chair 15 minutes before the libero is due to arrive. He also considers buying coffee, but decides on tea instead – better to stick with routine. Besides, he doesn’t know how Nishinoya takes it. </span><p>
  <span>Nishinoya arrives right on time, his scarf wrapped around his neck and tucked into his orange coat. He pounces on the space heater like a cat on a mouse, peeling himself out of his coat and holding his hands in front of the electric warmth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Teachers have it rough,” says Asahi. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya nods, producing his phone. “There’s a butane heater in the teachers’ room but it makes me light-headed,” he types. “And it’s hard to keep warm in the gym.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should get some handwarmers,” suggests Asahi. “I think I have some from last year in here…” he rummages around in his desk and comes up with a couple of the plastic packages. “Here; I’ve got a heater.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya accepts them gratefully, shoving them into his pants pockets. “You’re a lifesaver!” He kicks the chair back and scrambles into it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um,” says Asahi, as Nishinoya stares at him expectantly. “As much as possible, I’d like us to keep our sessions here at the Centre professional. I’d be happy to teach you anything you want that might be more private outside our regular sessions. Is that okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So no sexy talk?” inquiries Nishinoya, grinning. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not in the office. I can’t teach you if I’m distracted.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And flirting?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi smiles gently. “Try to restrain yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya cocks his head to the side. “Okay. But if it all comes out on our date, it’s on you,” he types. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll take that risk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Rough,</span>
  </i>
  <span> <i>ASAHI-san, </i>he signs, dropping his phone into his lap. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi swallows. “</span>
  <span>旭</span>
  <span>,” he signs carefully, slowing his fingers through the familiar movements. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya echoes them, his own fingers nimble but uncertain, tracing Asahi’s name crookedly in the air. It makes Asahi’s heart contract in his chest, makes him a little giddy. He’s not on first-name terms with many people, even fewer when signing. Just his family, Daichi and Suga. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And now Nishinoya. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Try again,</span>
  </i>
  <span> suggests Asahi with a quiet thrill in his gut, and signs his name once more. Nishinoya folds his fingers through the movements again, more certain this time. <i>Good</i>, signs Asahi<i>. </i>His face is hot, his ears burning. It shouldn’t be so intimate, so tender like a kitten’s tiny claws kneading at his heart. But it is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>You like it, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Nishinoya, expression soft. <i>Asahi-san</i>, he adds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi swallows. <i>You have beautiful fingers, </i>he says, and then hears how corny it sounds. But Nishinoya is grinning widely.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>No FLIRTING? </span>
  </i>
  <span>he prompts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Right. Right. </span>
  </i>
  <span>Asahi waves through the acknowledgement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>It’s okay to like it,</span>
  </i>
  <span> continues Nishinoya. <i>More okay if you like it on my DICK,</i> he adds wickedly, bouncing a little with his hips suggestively while signing <i>Asahi</i>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi feels a wave of searing heat and thinks he might just need to put his head down. “Um, okay,” he says, breaking out of sign, sweat rolling down his back. “Back on track. We can talk about… that… later.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya crosses his legs, smiling pertly, and raises his eyebrows like he isn’t a complete shit disturber. <i>What now?</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>How was your weekend?</span>
  </i>
  <span> Signs Asahi, taking deep breaths to keep the dizziness at bay. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Good, be… because I meet you,</span>
  </i>
  <span> replies Nishinoya, finding his words triumphantly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>And what did we do?</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>We play – played – volleyball. And drank COFFEE. And TRADED numbers. After I go home. And I THINK of me and you. </span>
  </i>
  <span>His toothy grin and sly eyes make it clear exactly what kind of thoughts those had been. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>And next time, what do you want to do? </span>
  </i>
  <span>asks Asahi.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya leans forward, eyes catching the light and shining like a hawk’s. <i>I want you to KISS me,</i> he signs. <i>But that’s not PROFESSIONAL. So let’s go drink. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>We can do that,</span>
  </i>
  <span> returns Asahi weakly, and then he changes the topic before either of them can break more rules.</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Nishinoya’s good at memorization. He’s less confident with his execution, muddying the meaning of signs when he makes mistakes in the motion or misorders them. But he’s remembered a lot of what they went over last week, and is eager to learn more when he’s not pressing to give Asahi an aneurism from sheer molten embarrassment. They talk about the other courses here at the Centre, about being in hospital, about 80s rock. </span><p>
  <i>
    <span>I was great at KARAOKE, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Nishinoya, and Asahi feels the dual hit to the gut of pity and guilt. <i>Well. When DRUNK, </i>he amends. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I have GUITAR HERO,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Asahi. <i>Ayumi liked playing it – great visual queues (VISUAL QUEUES) so she could follow. She played with friends; she was quite good. If you want, we could play. Not the same as karaoke, but…</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya blinks. <i>Yes, </i>he signs after a minute. <i>Yes! I like that!</i> </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Then it’s a date, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Asahi. And then he blushes. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>旭 - Asahi</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Secrets</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>That evening, Asahi cleans his apartment. It’s a tiny one-room rental and he keeps it relatively clear because if he starts getting messy it’s not long before he feels claustrophobic in the minute space. Still he spends more than an hour scrubbing the kitchenette and bathroom, putting away lost socks and half-read books and magazines, and dusting in inconspicuous corners and along walls. When he’s done there’s a sharp smell of citrus in the air; he opens the door to the balcony regardless of the cold to get the breeze in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the small size of the apartment and his limited budget, Asahi has focused on creating a homey atmosphere. He’s hung matching picture-frames on the walls with bright photos taken around Tokyo, and put up floating shelves to hold lush plants. His furniture, such as it is, is white to open up the space: white TV stand, white bookshelf, glass and metal desk. His bed, which with the aid of a long pillow also doubles as a sofa, takes up the majority of the space; with a white and leaf-green duvet cover it contributes to the décor as well as could be hoped. The overall impression is one of cool comfort, a coordinated space that’s calming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He digs out his aging PS3 from the closet and sets it up beneath his TV, then stands back to consider the overall picture. Clean, tidy, and yet terribly focused on his bed. There’s no getting around the fact that that’s where they’ll be sitting. May even be where he teaches Nishinoya to talk dirty via signs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi takes a deep gulp of the cold air blowing in and goes to close the sliding door. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Tuesday is Yamaguchi’s 1:1, and Asahi leads it off by venturing into mouthing. Yamaguchi is at the point where it’s becoming necessary. He speaks slowly and loudly, explaining. “Up until now we’ve been focused on cementing signing. But mouthing is essential in JSL – much more important than in sign language in other languages. It helps distinguish different meanings from the same sign. It will take work to accomplish it without feeling awkward, but it will also increase your vocabulary.”</span><p>
  <span>Yamaguchi nods. “I’ve seen you and Hinata-san do it,” he says. “And the people on the news and in the videos you shared do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think of it like furigana,” suggests Asahi. “Use it to specify readings. For example, house and home have the same sign but different meanings.” He makes the sign and mouths house, then home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yamaguchi nods. <i>Let’s try, </i>he signs. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>We can practice with names,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Asahi. <i>For example, </i></span>
  <span>雪花</span>
  <i>
    <span>,</span>
  </i>
  <span>” he mouths Setsuka the first time, and Yukika the second. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yamaguchi smiles. </span>
  <span>蛍</span>
  <span>, he signs, mouthing <i>Kei </i>and then <i>Hotaru</i>. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Good. Keep going!</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Asahi prepares some visuals for the evening group session. The group seems to have naturally gelled, but due to the rambunctious personalities present, they also seem to be heading down rabbit-holes instead of focusing on basic vocabulary. He brings the cards, along with the space heaters, down before the session and sets up. </span><p>
  <span>Daichi and Tsukishima arrive first, engaged in a low-key conversation about Olympic venues. Hinata arrives shortly after and joins them, perching on his chair’s armrest and tapping his fingers eagerly on his thighs as they switch from speaking to signing for his benefit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suga arrives with Kageyama in tow; the elementary-school teacher has glitter in his hair and on his cheeks, a fine sparkling dust. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Suga,” says Asahi, too surprised to remember to be formal; Suga gives him a long-suffering look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. It’ll wash out. Surprise glitter-bomb from Satoshi-kun,” he says, naming his number one trouble-maker. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daichi catches his tone and glances over; he blinks once, then turns back to his conversation – clearly he’s seen worse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya and Yamaguchi arrive together, signing about a recent volleyball game. Tanaka’s not far behind them, coming in last and closing the door behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives Asahi a flat look as he comes in, which Asahi has trouble interpreting. But when he takes his seat and starts struggling through a comment about Oikawa Tooru with Nishinoya and Yamaguchi, he’s focused on the conversation and smiling easily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi sits and raises his hand, and in a couple of moments the conversations around the room have stopped. <i>Good evening, </i>he signs, and receives a flutter of return greetings. <i>Today instead of random (RANDOM) talk, I would like us to talk about these pictures. Please tell me what is happening in them. Make up a story (STORY). </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds up the first picture, of a small boy walking a dog that is bigger than him. Hinata sensibly stays quiet and after a moment Suga starts out tentatively. <i>A boy is with a dog.</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>The dog is big, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Daichi. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>The boy is small, </span>
  </i>
  <span>adds Tsukishima with a bland face. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>The boy is named Hinata,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Nishinoya, grinning. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>The dog is named Tsukishima,</span>
  </i>
  <span> replies Hinata, also grinning. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Tsukishima likes to listen to music, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Yamaguchi, smiling shyly at Tsukishima. The blond glances at him, face neutral, and unexpectedly picks up the mantle. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Hinata likes to make TROUBLE, </span>
  </i>
  <span>replies Tsukishima. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Hinata is a great friend with an awesome personality, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Hinata.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Tsukishima can eat him for LUNCH, </span>
  </i>
  <span>puts in Kageyama. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Could</span>
  </i>
  <span>, prompts Asahi, while Hinata sticks out his tongue at Kageyama from across the room. <i>Okay, </i>signs Asahi, putting that card on the floor and picking up the next. <i>What about this one?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>The picture is of two teenagers texting on the train. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Two boys use their phones, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs out Daichi slowly; his vocabulary is improving but he’s still slow with the signs themselves. Still, he’s more accurate than half the group. He always was a dedicated studier. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>They are TEXTING each other, </span>
  </i>
  <span>adds Yamaguchi; Asahi provides the sign for texting – more of a mime, really. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>DEFINITELY SEXTING,</span>
  </i>
  <span> contributes Nishinoya, his smile toothy. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Very true, </span>
  </i>
  <span>adds Tanaka. <i>Boys today… </i>he shakes his head sententiously, as though he were a model of uprightness. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>In my day, we just MADE OUT behind the GYM, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Suga; beside him Daichi looks faintly pink. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Thank you grandpa,</span>
  </i>
  <span> puts in Tsukishima. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Oho, Stingy-shima, didn’t you?</span>
  </i>
  <span> asks Hinata. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yamaguchi smiles gently. <i>Tsukki is very PRIVATE. We went to his house. </i>He mouths house, and Asahi gives him a nod. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>So you got caught by your mom instead of other students, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Hinata victoriously at Tsukishima. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I don’t get caught, </span>
  </i>
  <span>replies Tsukishima with a bland smile. <i>Because I’m not an IDIOT. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi prepares to enter the fray, but Kageyama beats him to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Hinata is an idiot, </span>
  </i>
  <span>he signs, and Asahi wonders if he looked up the word on his own and why, <i>but he’s my idiot. </i>He stares flatly at Tsukishima, who shrugs. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Okay, </span>
  </i>
  <span>he signs, expression passive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi drops the picture and picks up the next. <i>Let’s keep going</i>, he signs.</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>They discuss a woman working on her computer (Videogame programmer or porn editor?), two men wrestling (Kageyama’s colleagues in the Olympics!), and a horse in a field (Hope it’s not in Kumamoto, or it’s for basashi!).</span><p>
  <span>They finish up on a girl with her leg in a cast. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>The girl hurt her leg,</span>
  </i>
  <span> starts Yamaguchi.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>She went to the hospital and they put on a cast, </span>
  </i>
  <span>adds Hinata, providing some useful vocab.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>She was there a long time, </span>
  </i>
  <span>puts in Nishinoya, fingers moving slower than usual. <i>She was scared. </i>Tanaka glances at him, then adds: </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>She will get BETTER. Her friends will HELP. </span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Maybe she won’t WALK AGAIN, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Nishinoya, and Asahi feels a tightening in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>And maybe she’ll fly, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Hinata sharply, his motions cut-glass – almost brittle, but powerful. <i>Losing something isn’t the same as losing everything. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>With help, she can ADAPT, </span>
  </i>
  <span>adds Yamaguchi, glancing at Tsukishima. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>With friends, she can be STRONG, </span>
  </i>
  <span>puts in Suga, his expression soft. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi takes in a breath and then carefully signs: <i>With love, she can grow.</i> He sees Nishinoya’s eyes widen slightly. Then he smiles – it’s not his usual sharp-edged grin or wolfish look, but a gentler twist of his lips. It makes Asahi’s heart throb. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Right, </span>
  </i>
  <span>Nishinoya signs. <i>She will be okay. </i></span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>After the group session Suga and Daichi come over to say goodnight, the two of them going on to a bar for a drink; Daichi slaps Asahi’s shoulder on the way out and Suga gives him an encouraging smile. </span><p>
  <span>Asahi can feel the nervousness pooling in his gut, thick and heavy as molasses. He collects the picture cards with trembling hands and unplugs the heaters with awkward yanks while the rest of the students chat amongst themselves. Asahi can’t help but notice that Tanaka’s watching him, but he doesn’t say anything, engaged in a conversation with Yamaguchi and Kageyama. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya comes over to help with the second heater and together they lug the equipment back upstairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were pretty cool back there,” types Nishinoya after they’ve put away the heaters. “‘With love, she can grow.’” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi feels his ears burning. “Um. Well… That’s how I feel. The people who love you <i>should </i>help you grow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess that’s a new idea for me. For the longest time, it’s been just me and Ryuu. My parents aren’t onboard with the whole gay thing, and none of my past flings stuck around long enough to care.” The program makes his words into toneless facts droning out of a speaker. He’s even smiling slightly, but his eyes tell the true story: this is hard, is uncomfortable, is unknown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi, who has only known love and acceptance from his parents and friends – at least Daichi and Suga – feels even more guilty. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw, turn that frown upside-down,” types Nishinoya, grinning again – even this doesn’t keep him down for long. “Let’s focus on the good stuff: we’re going out! And then Guitar Hero, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi nods, managing a smile. “Right.”</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>They wait until the rest of the group leaves, lock up, then gather their coats and head out. The streets are busy, the majority of pedestrians wearing dark clothes that blend into the evening darkness. Asahi’s own coat is a long wool one – a present from his parents upon his moving to Tokyo, which they felt was too fashionable for his old worn-out coat – and just as dark as the rest of the crowd. Beside him Nishinoya’s orange puffer shines like a beacon. </span><p>
  <span>“Where should we go?” asks Asahi as they exit the centre and stand out front watching the cars go by, their exhaust putting up white clouds. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>RAMEN!</span>
  </i>
  <span> spells Nishinoya, and Asahi nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure; I know a good place nearby.” They strike out through the smaller side-streets, a mixture of offices and hotels with small businesses on the ground floor – coffee shops, barbers, recycle stores. It’s quieter off the main street and more cramped, the sidewalks narrow and crowded with telephone poles and mailboxes. Nishinoya bumps up against him several times as they navigate around obstacles; Asahi is pretty sure he’s doing it on purpose. He glances up once and grins, his sharp eyes bright with amusement in the warm streetlights’ glow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They come to the ramen shop, just a narrow hole in the wall with a vending machine out front to buy tickets from. Shoyu, shio and miso ramen only. They make their selections and head inside, Asahi squeezing his bulk between the wall and the stools down to the end and then taking a seat. There are only two other diners right now, both near the door. Nishinoya sidles up beside him and perches on the stool next to his. They hand their tickets over to the chef and shimmy out of their coats; the air is hot and thick with the greasy smell of broth. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>You know,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Nishinoya, <i>JSL is good for SECRET talk.</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi smiles. <i>I know. When I lived at home, my sister and I would talk all the time in public – but it was private. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Before you and sister. Now you and me, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Nishinoya, grinning. <i>So when you TEACH me SEXY talk?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi swallows. <i>Not during dinner!</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya makes a face. <i>No one knows</i>, he signs, glancing around with raised eyebrows at the other silent diners. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I would know!</span>
  </i>
  <span> replies Asahi. Nishinoya reaches out and pats him on the arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Okay. But when I know, I use. </span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi smiles. <i>Is that a THREAT? </i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>It’s a PROMISE. </span>
  </i>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>The ramen arrives quickly, and with his hands full Nishinoya can’t maintain a conversation and eat, so they put off talking until they’ve finished the food. The texture of the noodles is good – firm but slippery – the meat and vegetables tender and the broth rich. It’s much better than anything he could make at home; while Asahi tries to cook in as much as possible he struggles with rich flavours. </span><p>
  <span>“We could stay longer,” says Asahi, “but I’ve got some beer and snacks at my place if you’d prefer. It’s pretty nearby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your place,” texts Nishinoya, his smile suggestive. “Definitely your place.”</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>They cut through the cold night air together, Nishinoya close beside him. He lives only a few blocks from the centre in a small apartment building, the dingy condition hardly impacts the rent prices at all here in Tokyo. They trudge up the stairs together to Asahi’s third floor apartment, and he opens the door for Nishinoya. </span><p>
  <span>“Wow, very clean,” texts Nishinoya as he steps out of his shoes and into the single room. “You should see my place.” He walks over to the PS3. “Blast from the past,” reads the phone; Asahi smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you like a beer?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He goes into the fridge and pulls out two cans of Kirin, popping them open and pouring out the pale liquid into a pair of glasses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oo, glasses. Fancy.” Nishinoya smiles and takes his, immediately taking a draw from it and ending up with a foam moustache. Slowly, tentatively, Asahi reaches out and brushes it off his upper lip with his thumb. Nishinoya’s staring up at him with big amber eyes, his mouth just slightly open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um,” says Asahi. Nishinoya catches Asahi’s wrist and brings the damp thumb to his mouth, licks off the foam. His eyes are still watching Asahi, full of wicked laughter. “Oh,” says Asahi softly, caught off-guard by the intimacy of the act. He can feel warmth twining in his veins, a pleasant mellow feeling that’s very different from the prickling anxiety he’s used to intimacy causing. He puts his beer down on the counter and weaves his fingers through Nishinoya’s, his larger hand enveloping the smaller one. He leans in. “Can I…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya nods vigorously, squeezing Asahi’s hand and pulling him closer. Asahi bends like a willow in the wind, and Nishinoya tilts his face up to meet him. Their lips meet with a gentle pressure, something chaste and lovely and even for Asahi hopelessly vanilla. It’s not enough – not nearly. He raises a hand to feather it through the back of Nishinoya’s hair tenderly, adjusting the angle of his head so that when he opens his mouth their tongues slide together easily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Nishinoya’s taking control, is pushing up against him and plundering his mouth, is throwing caution and tenderness to the winds in favour of passion and ardour. Heat floods Asahi’s body, something thick and thrilling settling low in his stomach that’s both comfortable and hungry. He feels good – feels great – feels better than he has in years, and – </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Nishinoya is pushing away and gasping, a terrifying, choking sound as he drops his beer and catches himself against the kitchenette’s wall. The glass shatters on the linoleum floor, beer spilling everywhere. “Noya-san?” he reaches out uncertainly and grabs Nishinoya’s shoulders, paralyzed with helplessness. “What’s wrong? <i>Noya?</i>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya’s breathing is steadying; he raises his head and straightens. <i>Sorry, </i>he signs, hand shaky. <i>Sorry. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” Asahi feels breathless with fear, all the warmth in his system turned suddenly to ice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya nods. <i>First time to KISS since…</i> he taps his stoma and drags his phone out. “Fuck, what a screw-up,” he texts, gesturing at the beer that’s soaking their socks. His face is pale with frustration and anger, his knuckles white. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi takes in a shaky breath. “It’s fine. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. As long as you’re okay.” The beer is spreading outwards towards the laminate wood floor in the rest of his apartment. “Just stay there. There’s glass everywhere.” He takes one long-legged step away from the carnage and makes it to the cupboard under the sink from which he grabs paper towels and a dust pan and brush. He tosses the towels to Nishinoya, who starts unrolling and spreading them while Asahi brushes up the glass.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he thinks he’s gotten most of it he puts the pan on the counter and looks at Nishinoya. Both their socks are soaked with beer, their feet damp. Nishinoya has surrounded the sea of beer with islands of towels and is slowly moving them around with his toes. The kitchen reeks of alcohol, and probably so do they.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Conscious of the likelihood of remaining glass fragments, Asahi steps over to Nishinoya and looks down at him. “Okay to go wash off?” he asks. Nishinoya nods. “Wait – don’t move. I probably missed some.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya frowns consideringly, but before he can respond Asahi’s reached out and scooped him up in his arms, taking two long strides from the kitchen to the entryway and into the adjoining bathroom. Nishinoya’s staring up at him wide-eyed; he blinks when Asahi puts him down in the tub. Then he picks up his phone. “Wow. Literally swept off my feet – you big lug!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi flushes. To cover up his embarrassment he reaches up and unhooks the hose that acts also as his showerhead and brings it down. He gets in the tub and sits on the side, stripping off his soaked socks, and Nishinoya does the same. He turns on the water and they wash their feet off, beery water washing down the drain. “I’ll wash your socks and give them back. You can borrow some of mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya puts his foot up against Asahi’s; it’s tiny in comparison. “Doubt they’ll fit,” he texts. But he’s smiling now, his earlier frustration evaporated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They dry their feet off and return to the edge of the kitchen; most of the beer’s been soaked up or is drying. “I’ll clean the rest up later,” says Asahi. “Do you want another?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya shakes his head. “Better not,” he texts. He passes Asahi and hops up onto the edge of the bed. His expression is thoughtful, and Asahi pauses instead of turning on the PS3. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I tell you about it?” asks Nishinoya, tapping his stoma. Asahi comes and sits down beside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop me if you’re bored,” he types.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think you could be boring if you tried, Noya-san,” replies Asahi smiling gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya takes a breath. Apart from the movement of his shoulders he’s completely still, his hands resting on the sides of his phone, his eyes staring into the distance – or, more likely, the past. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just thought I had laryngitis at first. Off and on for a long time; my voice was all hoarse and shit. Then the doctor ran some tests. It wasn’t laryngitis.” He stretches his fingers, then continues: “All the cancer stuff was terrifying – still is. For a while, it was even scary enough that my parents decided to talk to me, decided that a dying son was more important than a gay one. But then I wasn’t dying anymore, and they cut me out a second time. And all of the sudden, I couldn’t talk back. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t eat or drink, could barely breathe.” He pauses and Asahi can see the pain in his face, the memory of horror so close beside him now, so real. He reaches out and puts a hand over Nishinoya’s; they sit together in silence for a minute, the room quiet except for the sounds of their breaths. Then Nishinoya nods and continues. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For a while, losing my voice lost me my autonomy. I was very sick, and everyone was making decisions for me: the doctors, the nurses, my school. Only Ryuu really tried to listen. Even now, most people don’t listen.” He puts down the phone, eyes closing momentarily, obviously exhausted not just by the typing but by the emotions he’s reliving. Slowly he raises his hands again, eyes slipping open to look up at Asahi. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>You do, </span>
  </i>
  <span>he signs. <i>You listen to me. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I’ll always listen,</span>
  </i>
  <span> replies Asahi. <i>Your voice is so strong, Noya-san. I can hear it. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya looks up at him, eyes bright as sunlit amber. <i>Can I KISS you?</i> he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Kiss me, please, </span>
  </i>
  <span>replies Asahi. Nishinoya takes a breath and then leans in, his mouth meeting Asahi’s and opening cleanly to allow his tongue entrance. He’s a little gentler this time, taking his time to explore and taste, his clever fingers slipping over Asahi’s arms and digging into his biceps. Asahi feels that same comfortable warmth return, a kind of honey-tinted cosiness that makes him open his mouth wider and draw his tongue along Nishinoya’s, revelling in the satisfaction that settles in his stomach and spreads outwards, suffusing him. He’s never felt so at ease so quickly before. He moans lightly, and Nishinoya gives a slight burst of air and then breaks away. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Need to breathe, </span>
  </i>
  <span>he signs coyly. <i>You’re too good. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi closes his eyes and drops his head gently to rest his forehead against Nishinoya’s. <i>This feels right, </i>he signs languidly. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Yeah, </span>
  </i>
  <span>replies Nishinoya. <i>It does. </i></span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Basashi is horse sashimi<br/>蛍 is Kei’s name, but can also be read Hotaru<br/>Furigana are the phonetic guides beside kanji to let you know how to read it</p><p>Question: I'm feeling that this is likely to move up into M or E rating; does anyone have a preference for whether explicit scenes remain in the body of this fic or get posted as a separate work to keep the rating lower on this one?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Shovel Speech</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>In the end, Guitar Hero is forgotten and they spend the evening talking instead. About Asahi’s thwarted ambitions to become a clothing designer, about Nishinoya’s pro career that never got off the ground. They’re neither of them bitter: Asahi thinks what he’s doing now is more important than designing clothes ever could have been, and Nishinoya enjoys mentoring a new crop of players. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As the evening progresses Asahi remains conscious of his own vulnerability as well as Nishinoya’s – this feels too right to mess up by jumping into bed with each other, despite their mutual attraction. They take things slow, Nishinoya leaning against Asahi’s chest with Asahi’s large hand in his lap, drawing circles on the smooth skin of the palm. It’s calming as well as just slightly arousing, a delicious bitter-sweet mix. Asahi breathes in the lemongrass scent of Nishinoya’s hair as he talks, the two of them comfortably close. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>So no SEXY talk</span>
  </i>
  <span>? Asks Nishinoya at one point, sliding his thumb along Asahi’s: a warm, inquisitive stroke that makes something twist low in Asahi’s stomach. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Not tonight</span>
  </i>
  <span>, he replies. <i>Next time?</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya cranes his head backwards, his hair ruffling against Asahi’s shirt as he looks up into his eyes. His expression is eager; intense. <i>When is next time?</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>We have a game on Sunday. Will you come?</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Sunday game? Sure. </span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>And after…?</span>
  </i>
  <span> Asks Asahi, catching his tongue in his teeth and holding it there, waiting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya grins. <i>After, you TEACH me. </i></span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    <span></span></p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Saying goodbye is hard. Nishinoya, bare feet in his runners, lingers in Asahi’s entryway simply by pinning Asahi against the door and kissing him. It’s a slow, tender kiss that melts Asahi’s bones and makes him weak-kneed. The kind of kiss he had dreamed about in high school, the kind of kiss his early experience with other men led him to believe was fairy tale. For a long time he had believed intimacy was always awkward and uncomfortable, something to be half-feared. Now he knows where the romance novels draw their truth from. </span><p>
  <i>
    <span>Don’t want go</span>
  </i>
  <span>, Nishinoya signs brokenly when they break apart, his hands returning the next moment to hold Asahi’s shoulders lightly against the door, his eyes playful. Standing toe-to-toe in the entryway Asahi’s at least 20 centimeters taller than Nishinoya and 25 kilograms heavier, but he feels no pressure to take the lead. It makes it easier for him to reply. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I’ll see you Thursday. Twice!</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya leans his forehead against Asahi’s chest. When he looks up again, his eyes are sharp. <i>Thursday, </i>he signs. <i>Okay?</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Promise</span>
  </i>
  <span>, replies Asahi.</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    <span></span></p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Wednesday morning is Kageyama, the pro setter turning up on time and wooden-faced as always. Asahi’s in an incredible mood, ushering Kageyama in with a smile. “I didn’t make tea – I didn’t think you liked it.”</span><p>
  <span>“Not really,” agrees the setter straightforwardly. He takes a seat, tapping his fingers on his knee. “Asahi-san… how long did it take you to learn to sign?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi blinks. “I don’t really remember. I learned with my sister as a child; we both advanced together, although she was better of course – her lessons were all in JSL. Typically students find they’re conversant after about 3 months of daily study, but that’s still pretty basic. It could take a couple of years to become really fluent.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama stares at him, eyes dark. “Hinata expects a lot. Well… not on purpose, I don’t think. But he forgets that I’m still learning. And then he gets impatient. I get impatient too. With him, and with myself. I’m good at memorization; I don’t know why this is so hard.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kageyama-san, it’s important for you to remember that you’re learning a new language. You took English in school for 6 years, but how good is your English?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama makes a face. “Terrible.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sure you’re trying harder with this, and it’s helpful that JSL is grammatically very similar to Japanese. But there’s still a huge amount to learn and understand. You need to be patient with yourself – you need to remind yourself that this is a whole other way to communicate. And you need to remind Hinata-san of that as well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama sighs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would you like me to speak to him?” offers Asahi. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. I can handle it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. I thought today we could talk about these pictures again…” he turns the stack of cards right side up, showing a bird eating a French fry. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>There is a BIRD</span>
  </i>
  <span>, starts Kageyama, glowering at the picture. Asahi sits back and provides vocabulary as the conversation slowly unfolds. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    <span></span></p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Suga comes in in the afternoon; it’s his free period, Asahi knows. “No glitter today?” he asks innocently. Suga gives him a look. “Sorry,” he smiles. </span><p>
  <span>Suga takes a seat and sips at the tea. “It’s nice to have a break. They’re in PE right now, God help Kitano-sensei. They’re rambunctious today.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How’s Maria-chan?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga nods. “They’re talking about moving her to a special ed class, but no decision yet. We’ve been getting by. She’s a strong reader.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you?” asks Suga, giving him a sly smile. “How did the date go?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi blushes and reaches up to smooth down his hair. “It went fine. Better than fine. He’s… really great. I’ve never met anyone like him. So comfortable to be around.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s because you’ve never met the right person,” replies Suga. “But Noya-san does seem thoughtful, under all that brashness.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s much better at communicating than me. And…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga raises his eyebrow. “And?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I just want to be with him, Suga. It felt so <i>right</i>. I mean, it was kind of awkward too, and he shared some of what he’s been through and that was hard, and I know it’s still very soon, but…” Asahi sighs. “I really like him,” he says, quietly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga reaches out and pats his shoulder. “I’m glad. You did great agreeing to try it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was so afraid of hurting him – or of being hurt. But yesterday I realized that we could be much stronger together. I mean, I think so at least…” he adds, trailing off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga’s pat turns into a chop. “Be more confident!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ahaha.” He flips up the cards on his desk. “Okay. Let’s talk about these for a while.”</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    <span></span></p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>His apartment smells of citrus cleaner again when he gets home, this time from cleaning up the spill in the kitchen yesterday. Feeling more confident now, Asahi turns on his computer and logs onto Facebook. He pulls up Nishinoya’s profile. </span><p>
  <span>There’s only one new entry since the last time he accessed it; just a single line posted last night: <i>Guys, I think I’m in love. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi blushes deep, deep scarlet. He looks for comments but there are none – just a few thumbs ups. Feeling emboldened now, he scrolls down through Nishinoya’s wall. Past the posts about his failing speech therapy, past the karaoke post. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants to understand more about what Nishinoya’s been through. Wants to be strong for him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, what he sees shocks him. There are pictures of Nishinoya in hospital, smiling groggily but full of tubes – down his mouth and nose, in his new raw stoma. Pictures where his throat is patched over with pinkish adhesive bandages from his jaw to just above the collarbones and his skin is terribly pale. Pictures of him just outside the hospital entrance making the V sign – it’s early summer and he’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt which reveal just how skinny he is, how much bulk the stay in hospital cost him. He had been light when Asahi scooped him up the previous night but nothing like as diminished as he is in the photos. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are no pictures that describe what he talked about last night – his cancer diagnosis; his absent parents; his loss of autonomy. But the horror and the suffering come through all the same, at least to Asahi. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a while he shuts down Facebook and opens up the internet. He searches 80s rock; he’s never listened to much of it himself, but Nishinoya likes it. He makes a few notes and tucks them away in his wallet, planning a trip to Book Off. Then he goes to make himself dinner. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    <span></span></p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>The next day starts out with Yamaguchi’s 1:1. Yamaguchi’s at the point where they can have simple but normal conversations, and rather than bringing out the cards for him Asahi sets points of conversation about recent topics in the news. </span><p>
  <i>
    <span>UM</span>
  </i>
  <span>, signs Yamaguchi at one point, spelling it cutely. Asahi raises his eyebrows kindly. <i>I wondered… there are times when signing is hard… like in bed, </i>he signs, taking the leap. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi nods. Clearly Kageyama was ahead of the curve.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Do you have any ADVICE?</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I can give you materials with vocabulary to use. But knowing your hands may not always be free, or that you can’t always see them, I suggest you plan alternate signs. Start simple – have a plan for ‘okay?’ For example, tapping on the shoulder. Or even biting, if that’s not part of your usual routine. Also consider using positions where you can see each other.</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He briefly imagines Nishinoya behind him, his teeth rough against Asahi’s shoulder, pleading silently for permission to continue. Asahi swallows and forces back the image. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yamaguchi nods. <i>Thanks. That helps. And please share the materials with me. </i></span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    <span></span></p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Nishinoya blows in that afternoon, all smiles. He’s got a small bouquet of flowers with him. </span><p>
  <span>“Noya-san! This isn’t a date!” says Asahi, partially shocked, partially nervous. But he accepts the flowers (huge, brightly-coloured daisies) while Nishinoya digs out his phone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. But I couldn’t bring you flowers in a match,” he types. And then appears to think about it, eyes narrowing slyly. “Or could I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is fine,” says Asahi hastily, interrupting that terrifying thought. “Thank you. Really.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe coffee would have been better. But I wanted something that reminded me of you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi looks at the flowers in confusion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Big and beautiful!” types Nishinoya, grinning. Asahi feels his heart throb once, a pleasant, tight feeling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stay here while I get a vase,” he says, and hurries into the kitchen. There are no vases but he finds a tall glass and fills that with water, putting the flowers into it on his way back. The long green stems are thick and fuzzy, the surrounding greenery lush. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he gets back Nishinoya is sucking up his tea from the side of the cup with a slurping noise; he sits up abruptly and drinks properly. Asahi puts the flowers down on the small table in the corner of his office behind his desk, then takes a seat. “Really, thank you,” he says. “They’re beautiful.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya nods. “I know. Like you!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re trying to make me blush,” accuses Asahi, ears hot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And it’s working. You’re cute when you’re red, Asahi-san.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Noya-san –”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Call me Yuu.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yuu-san –”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just Yuu,” replies Nishinoya. Asahi swallows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yuu. But only when we’re alone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya looks at him calmly, then slowly nods. “For now,” he agrees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi flips the cards over. <i>Let’s start with these, okay?</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya looks down. <i>Okay. </i></span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    <span></span></p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>At the end of the session Asahi tucks away the cards and gets up, coming around the desk as Nishinoya stands. An instant later Nishinoya’s pushing him back into his desk, his ass catching on the ledge as the former libero slides his hands along the sides of Asahi’s face and tilts it downwards. Then he’s balancing on his top-toes and kissing Asahi, his mouth warm and wet. Asahi catches him around the hips, holding him close, his eyes sliding closed with pleasure. </span><p>
  <span>It’s not entirely comfortable – the edge of the desk is digging painfully into his ass, and Nishinoya’s wobbling slightly and occasionally knocking their teeth together. But it’s firm and hot and <i>real</i>, a reminder of the previous honey-tinted evening, of beer-scented kisses on his bed and a delicious golden-warm feeling. They break apart and come together several times, like the sea lapping against the shore, each time making Asahi’s heart leap in his chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then someone’s knocking on his door. Asahi snaps upright and jerks his arms away, his hips shoving the desk back nearly 5 centimeters; Nishinoya steps back, eyes wide. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um – just a moment,” he calls. Nishinoya grins wickedly at him and picks up his coat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>See you tonight</span>
  </i>
  <span>, he signs, and opens the door. Yachi’s on the other side; she bobs politely at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A student?” she asks. “Was I interrupting?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi waves her in. “It’s complicated,” he replies, and tries subtly to stop hyperventilating.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, flowers,” she says as she brings a stack of forms over for him to review, looking at the daisies. “How nice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They are, aren’t they?” says Asahi, a little breathlessly, and smiles. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    <span></span></p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Asahi prepares some new cards – written rather than pictures this time – for the evening class, and takes them downstairs in an old hat. Shimizu’s back today from her vacation so he can’t keep appropriating her heater; he brings down just his own this evening. </span><p>
  <span>The group arrives mostly on time. He’s pleased to see that by now when they enter the class most of them are signing rather than speaking. He waits for everyone to settle, very aware of Nishinoya’s eyes on him, and then seats himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Today, let’s play a game, </span>
  </i>
  <span>he signs, hat on his lap. <i>It’s a guessing (GUESSING) game. One person leaves the room, we draw a name from the hat, and have to describe (DESCRIBE) to them who they are. </i>He holds up the hat and shakes it. <i>One more thing. For this game, no spelling (SPELLING). If you don’t know the sign, please mime (MIME) it. Someone will help you.</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama and Tsukishima look less than amused; everyone else seems accepting. <i>First I would like Hinata-san to leave, </i>signs Asahi. Hinata jumps up and steps out of the circle of arm chairs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Pick someone awesome!</span>
  </i>
  <span> He signs, and leaves the room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi passes the hat to his right – Yamaguchi – and has him pull a name. Yamaguchi unfolds the piece of paper and holds it up: <i>Straw Hat Luffy</i>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everyone nods. Yamaguchi puts the piece of paper in his pocket and Kageyama goes to call in Hinata. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hinata comes bounding in, looking around expectantly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>You wear a …</span>
  </i>
  <span> Suga trails off, and mimes putting on a hat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Hat!</span>
  </i>
  <span> Signs Yamaguchi. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Indiana Jones, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Hinata. <i>Urahara Kisuke!</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>You can’t swim, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Daichi. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>You like meat, </span>
  </i>
  <span>adds Tsukishima. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>You’re… </span>
  </i>
  <span>Nishinoya mimes pulling an elastic apart and snapping it back again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Luffy!</span>
  </i>
  <span> Signs Hinata; Asahi nods and he takes a seat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Noya-san, you’re next,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Asahi; Nishinoya gets up and leaves and Yamaguchi passes the hat to Tsukishima who pulls out <i>Abe Shinzou</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everyone looks a little blank, and Asahi wonders if it’s maybe too difficult – manga characters are much easier than politicians. But Suga gets up to get Nishinoya and they settle into it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>You’re old¸ </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Tanaka.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Not that old, </span>
  </i>
  <span>replies Suga, smiling gently. <i>In 60s. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>You live in Tokyo,</span>
  </i>
  <span> adds Daichi. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya frowns. <i>WATANABE KEN? </i>He asks, blankly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Much worse, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Tsukishima. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Not in movies, </span>
  </i>
  <span>adds Yamaguchi. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>TOSAKA JUN’ICHI?</span>
  </i>
  <span> Guesses Nishinoya. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Not that bad, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Tsukishima. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Not help,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Nishinoya, irritated. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>You are top of Japan,</span>
  </i>
  <span> puts in Kageyama. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya frowns. <i>EMPEROR? </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Close, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Hinata. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Not so close, </span>
  </i>
  <span>replies Suga kindly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI?</span>
  </i>
  <span> Nishinoya grins as Kageyama glares. <i>Joke. ABE SHINZOU?</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi nods, smiling, and Nishinoya sighs. <i>So hard!</i> He flops back in his chair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Sawamura-san,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Asahi, and Daichi gets up. They continue. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    <span></span></p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>They go through Takayama Minami (singer and little boy, which severely puzzles Daichi), Uchiha Sasuke (evil genius and weird dad; Suga guesses Dr Evil), and Sherlock Holmes (not-Japanese not-police-but-close book-man, Tsukishima oddly gets it almost immediately). As expected the guesses spiral downwards, as do the clues. But as the hour wears on they become more comfortable with inventing their own signs to bridge vocabulary gaps – an essential part of sign language. </span><p>
  <span>They wrap up on a high (Godzilla, ably mimed by Hinata attacking Kageyama), and Asahi calls a close to the session. As usual, Asahi cleans up while the others chat. He brings the space heater and the hat up to his office, expecting Nishinoya to join him. But when there’s a knock on the door and he turns, it’s Tanaka who’s standing there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can we talk?” he asks. Asahi nods and he steps in, closing the door behind him. “Noya’s gone back to school to cover for the rest of evening practice,” he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, right,” replies Asahi, a little disappointed. Tanaka comes over to stand across from him on the other side of the desk; he doesn’t sit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know he’s going out with you,” he starts, and there are no smiles, no congratulations. His eyes are hard, his mouth flat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Well, yes – we just started…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tanaka cuts through his vagueness. “He cares about you. A lot. You’re the first person he’s connected with since the cancer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi nods. “I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you know why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not sure what you’re asking…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The doctors told him he had a 60% chance of living for five years. That 4 out of 10 people with cancer like his would be dead by then. Between his health and the grade of the cancer, he has a pretty good chance. But not a great one. He might not live to see 30. For a long time, he couldn’t even imagine anyone wanting to be with him, or burdening anyone with it. He’s been through the wringer, and it’s not something that’s going to end.  He gets checked every 6 months – and every time, there’s a chance the cancer could be back. Are you going to be with him through that? Are you going to be with him if it <i>does</i> come back?” demands Tanaka, voice rough. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tanaka-san,” starts Asahi, his eyes wide and his hands trembling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look, I’ll be blunt. I like you Asahi-san – you’re a good guy and you’ve got a great program here. But you’re not exactly a forceful character. And if you’re going to wimp out and fall through for him when he needs you, you’d better break it off now. Because if you screw him over when he’s vulnerable, I will put you through even worse pain than his.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not long ago, Asahi would have been struck wordless by fear, by immeasurable insecurities. Would probably have agreed with Tanaka. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After this week, though, after embracing and kissing and listening to Nishinoya, he’s somehow not the same. Like a chemical reaction, Nishinoya has changed something inside him. Has given him a sliver of strength that wasn’t there before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I understand your concern,” he says slowly. “Noya-san has been very clear that you were the only one who he could count on during his treatment. I’m sure he still counts on you hugely. But I also know that he wants someone in his heart, someone who will listen to him. I can hear him very clearly, Tanaka-san. I can hear what he wants, what he fears, and hopefully even what he needs. I think together, we could be stronger than we are apart.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tanaka stares at him, eyes fierce, for several seconds. Then, slowly, he nods. “Noya wants to try, and he’s a pretty good judge of character. If you’d chickened out, I’d’ve shot you down in flames. But if you’re committed, I’ll wish you luck – for now. Remember what I said.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I will,” replies Asahi steadily. Tanaka gives him a nod and leaves, shutting the door behind him. As soon as he’s gone Asahi’s knees give out and he collapses into his chair. “Hell,” he says softly, and spins around in his chair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes fall on the flowers in the corner. Like rain washing away dust, his anxiety slips away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow, Nishinoya has become a dream he’s willing to fight for. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Communication</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please note the rating has been increased to Explicit.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Asahi is a competent, consummate professional. He tells himself that most nights, and in the mornings he occasionally even believes it to be true. But all Friday all he can think about is being alone with Nishinoya in his apartment, his visions becoming increasingly intimate as the day wears on. He’s conscious of the fact that Kageyama seems to have calmed down slightly, and that he’s on point and attentive in their 1:1. He’s aware that Shimizu comes in over lunch time and shares some stories from her trip to Kyoto for the fall leaves. Beyond that, it’s mostly a blur.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saturday is taken up with frantic cleaning despite the fact that the apartment is still pretty much spotless from Tuesday, buying snacks and beer, buying condoms (always mortifying), buying some 80s rock from Book Off, and eating lightly. Maybe there won’t be anything up his ass tomorrow evening, but if there is he wants it to be pristine. Even the thought fills him with a tingling warmth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spends the evening with a book and a beer, but his nerves won’t let him settle. His imagination is growing increasingly fearsome, is taking liberties he would never take in real life with the scenarios it throws him into. Nishinoya behind him, pinning his arms to the wall and rutting into him. Nishinoya’s mouth against his entrance, the blunt warmth of his tongue inside him, making him ready…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi has to put down his book and retire to bed with some lube and his dildo. It’s been a while since he bothered with anything other than quick hand-jobs and he finds he’s tight and sensitive. He tries to prolong the pleasure, to burn off some of the tension and the hunger, but after two days of suppressing dirty thoughts he doesn’t have much stamina left. The sensation of the silicone dick in his ass is intense, his strokes quick and desperate, his imagination running wild. He reaches his peak quickly, gasping as he jerks himself off to the image of Nishinoya’s wicked smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Afterwards he puts the sheets in the wash and pulls on a new set – at least it gives him something to take his mind off Nishinoya. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>By Sunday his unusual confidence has waned. Doubts begin to creep in, insidious as tree roots in concrete, cracking his determined optimism. Every warning, every risk Tanaka drilled him on suddenly looms over him, the consequences of failure immense and appalling. The idea of taking things to the next level, so pleasurable over the past two days, is now hatching a swarm of butterflies in his stomach. The thought of backing out holds some comfort – it’s not too late, surely, to admit he made a mistake? Or is it? He feels heart-sick, a cold, clammy feeling that make him burrow in his bed and bury his head in the pillow to block out the light of day. Swaddled in self-imposed darkness he plays back the scene with Tanaka in his mind over and over, increasingly incredulous at his confident dismissal of Tanaka’s fears. How can he know he’s right for Nishinoya? Could he really support someone else through something so awful as malignant cancer? What if he <i>does </i>mess it all up? </span><p>
  <span>Time ticks by. Asahi’s phone buzzes occasionally with messages. He considers texting Suga or Daichi, but the thought of baring this collapse of confidence to them makes him sick. He feels more pathetic than he ever has, unable to face the thought of sharing his insecurities with even his best friends. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At twelve o’clock he crawls out of bed and drags himself to the fridge to look for something to eat. His nerves are making his stomach turn, but he knows he needs to eat something if he’s going to play this afternoon. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Is</span>
  </i>
  <span> he going to play this afternoon? Maybe he could just not show up. Make an excuse. Headache. Stomach ache. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heartache. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi thumps his head down onto the folding table beside his dish of reheated mapo tofu, the coolness of the table comforting. He needs to pull himself together. He can’t ghost Nishinoya. He needs to show up – maybe postpone their post-game date? Maybe ask for more time? He’s breaking out in a cold sweat, heartbeat hammering thin and sickly in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, he can imagine Nishinoya’s incredulous, beguiling look at his evasions. <i>Cold feet, Asahi-san? I can fix that</i>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything seems to simple, so <i>right </i>when he’s with Nishinoya. It’s being alone that gives his thoughts time to fester until he becomes a dumpster fire. He takes in a deep, shaky breath and straightens. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s going to the game. Whatever happens after that, he’ll find a way to cope. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hopes.</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>It’s frigid outside, the blue sky pale as a watercolour above. Asahi passes coffee shops selling yuzu and yam-flavoured drinks, flavourful fall specials to combat the chill. Stores are decorated with sheaves of red and orange autumn leaves, bringing bright colours to Tokyo’s concrete jungle. </span><p>
  <span>The community gym is about a 30 minute walk from his apartment. He arrives a little late; most of the team is already there and the nets are set up. Kuroo is in attendance, laughing at some joke with Terushima and Matsukawa. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the sidelines, Nishinoya is talking to Kozume, his phone in his hands. Kozume is pointing out something on the screen, his cat-like eyes slightly glazed as usual. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya’s already shed his coat and is in just his black track suit. His expression as he texts to Kozume is serious, attentive. Then he catches sight of Asahi and his face breaks into a wide, eager smile. Asahi’s heart flutters in his chest. He walks over, waving mildly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi. How are you?” he asks. Nishinoya nods, all smiles, and texts eagerly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kozume-san was explaining some features of his company’s app. He’s offered to let me come in next week and test it before buying it. Cool, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kozume mutters something about it being nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to try all the different voices,” enthuses Nishinoya. “Find one that’s right for me. Will you come?” he adds, looking up at Asahi expectantly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um,” says Asahi, startled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to pick one you like too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t worry about me,” says Asahi, suddenly feeling wretched. What if things don’t work out between them? What if he makes Nishinoya resent the voice he chooses? “My opinion isn’t that important.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“’Course it is,” replies Nishinoya. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Asahi can have a panic attack, Matsukawa claps his hands from the other side of the net. “Time to warm up,” he calls. Kozume trots over to Kuroo, and Nishinoya looks up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you join us?” asks Asahi softly. Nishinoya nods and tucks away his phone. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Being on the court helps. It’s hard to drown in worry when Kuroo is at the front of the group counting loudly: “One-two-one-two, bread-and-butter, meat-stew,” as his touches his toes, and poking at Kozume when he fails to extend all the way. </span><p>
  <span>As they stretch, Asahi admires Nishinoya. He’s all lithe elegance, perfectly proportioned and flexible enough to show it. Even under the loose folds of his track suit Asahi can intuit the strong bulk of his thighs and the firm lines of his calves, the press of his biceps and the flat plane of his abs. When he bends to stretch his quads the back of his jacket rides up, granting Asahi a view of a sliver of pale skin and the band of his briefs. Asahi swallows and looks away before he can become mesmerized. Since the awkwardness of puberty turned him into an unexpected giant he’s more or less come to terms with his big, lumbering body, but he’s never felt at his best while trying to force it into suppleness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They do warm-up exercises after, Nishinoya keeping pace easily, and then transition into drills. With Nishinoya here today they have 8 players, and Asahi pairs off evenly with him for spiking/receiving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s something calming about practicing. He’s been doing it for ten years now, has been going through the same routines with the same outcomes. Nishinoya is a great partner – he catches everything Asahi throws at him, even an awkward spike off the side of his palm that spirals out – and although silent his expressive face shows his admiration clearly. Asahi feels his jitteriness burn off, feels his shoulders setting and his breathing settle. He knows every inch of the court, knows exactly what to do when the ball comes at him. He belongs here, and it’s clear that Nishinoya does too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other team arrives just as they finish up the drill; Sundays have less available gym time. Nishinoya volunteers to ref and his offer is accepted; he sets himself up by the net with his buzzer while they file onto the court, Kinoshita on the bench. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Kuroo here their team is both strengthened and weakened; he’s an excellent player and was a second string in university, but he’s also another spiker and they’ve got a surfeit of them. Asahi finds himself wishing for Daichi, for someone with strong defensive reflexes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A spike blurs past Matsukawa and hits the court behind him, unreturned; Asahi glances to the side and sees Nishinoya glaring. His shoulders are up, his hands fisted; he’s practically radiating frustration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s right to be frustrated. They’re missing saves that were entirely gettable, are crumbling on defense. Two service aces go by, followed by a broken block. And as that guilt starts to gnaw away at Asahi’s gut, he starts missing spikes – sending them straight into blocks, or out of bounds. Terushima is starting to sulk; Matsukawa is mis-reading his blocks; on the back line, Aone is too slow to match the speed of the spikes. They’re spiralling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a prolonged buzzing from the sidelines; Asahi looks over to see Nishinoya waving them over on a time-out. He’s already got his phone out and is composing a message. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You guys are getting creamed on defense, and it’s getting into your heads. Chill out! Terushima-san, focus on the ball, not where it’s going to land. You’re mis-judging your lunges. Matsukawa-san, they’re getting a height advantage on you. Try for one-touches instead of full blocks, or take a longer lead-up in your jumps. Asahi-san, don’t let them get to you. You’re doing great – just keep up your confidence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi nods. Nishinoya’s expression is fierce and fearsome, his critique on-point. His words don’t feel like praise, they feel like a coaching speech. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We still can’t match their serves,” points out Kuroo. “They’re getting points in each time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re under-rotating the ball and it’s causing it to drop oddly; a little like a float serve,” types Nishinoya. “Stay on your toes and be ready to adjust your distance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kozume glances at him. “Easier said than done,” he says quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m too slow,” rumbles Aone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya sighs. “It’s like judging a ring-toss game, but from the other end. You’ve got to expect the unexpected.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Show us,” says Kozume. Asahi looks at him sharply, then at Nishinoya. The libero is staring, amber eyes wide. “That’s how we learn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to,” begins Asahi awkwardly, just as Nishinoya throws off his jacket. He hands his buzzer and phone to Kinoshita and points at Aone and hooks his thumb towards the sidelines. Aone nods.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kinoshita buzzes them back in, ending the time-out, and Nishinoya takes Aone’s place on the backline. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s all Asahi can do to focus on the net and the server beyond. He wants to be watching Nishinoya, to make sure he’s okay, he’s comfortable, he’s ready. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The buzzer goes and the server backs up, ball in hand. Then he’s taking his jump and connecting. The ball flies over the net towards the center of the court. Asahi follows it with his eyes and sees that Kozume has side-stepped to get out of Nishinoya’s way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without fanfare, without even apparent <i>effort</i>, Nishinoya steps forward, brings his arms together, and perfectly receives the ball. It flies up and Kuroo takes the spike, nailing it into the court on the other side of the net. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya looks straight to Asahi and, eyes shining, gives him a thumbs up. His smile, Asahi thinks, could illuminate an entire city. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Nishinoya subs out soon after; he’s not officially on their team roster or a member of the community league, and by having him on the court they’re technically in contravention of the rules, although no one’s a stickler for them. </span><p>
  <span>They come back from their period of listlessness to lose 1-2, but they make it to a deuce match in both of their losing sets; a close game. As they file off the court, Nishinoya greets them with an understanding look and some good advice about following up on one-touches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi watches him chat with Kozume and Kuroo through his phone while towelling off and pulling on his jacket and coat. He looks animated, looks like he’s enjoying himself. Asahi enjoys volleyball and he likes keeping fit, but it’s clear he doesn’t live for it the way Nishinoya does. The way he had looked after each receive, like he’d been presented with his heart’s desire… Asahi wants to treasure it. He comes to stand beside Nishinoya and the libero looks up at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good to go?” he types.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi nods, swallowing. “Yeah,” he says, trying to swallow the nervousness suddenly swelling inside him. For the past two hours, all that he’s been thinking about is volleyball. And now suddenly volleyball is over and he’s been dropped right into the midst of his earlier uncertainties. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They go.</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>“You’re a great coach.” They’re walking down the street as night falls, the city lights bright around them. Overhead the sky is grey with light pollution, a never-ending twilight. “Your advice is so concrete and easy to adapt to.”</span><p>
  <i>
    <span>Practice¸</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Nishinoya. <i>Lots. </i>He pulls out his phone and adds to his thought: “You should have more confidence. You’re a strong spiker, Asahi-san. Don’t let set-backs get you down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi stares down at him, his hands balled so tightly by his sides that they’re trembling. All at once his earlier uncertainties and insecurities crash down on him, a frigid, crushing sensation. He can feel the shock, the despair printed on his face; as much as he tries, he can’t seem to wipe it off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya looks up and catches sight of him. Stops dead on the sidewalk. <i>What?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi swallows. “You. You’re so optimistic – so confident. Nothing seems to phase you. Aren’t you ever uncertain? Aren’t you ever <i>afraid?</i>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya stares at him for a moment. Then, without answering, he looks around. His hand snaps out and grabs Asahi’s and he tows him forward down the sidewalk. “Hey – wait – Yuu…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s found a small bakery with a seating area, just a row of stools that at 4:30 on a Sunday are empty. There’s faint American pop music coming from the speakers; the room is toasty warm. There air is filled with the delicious sweet smell of bread. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya lets go of his hand and runs up to the counter; he buys a pair of croissants and returns with them, Asahi staring at him in confusion. Nishinoya tosses the plastic-wrapped croissants down on the shared counter and sits on one of the stools. <i>Sit, </i>he signs. Asahi sits. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>What afraid of?</span>
  </i>
  <span> Nishinoya signs. His toes are propped against the white-and-black checked floor, his knees high. His eyes are watching intensely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So much,” admits Asahi shakily. He takes a breath but it does nothing to ease the sea of fear churning in his gut. He looks at Nishinoya, still and attentive, and it all comes flooding out. “What if I’m not right for you? What if I’m not there for you when you need me? When I’m with you, everything is easy. You make it easy – you’re so fearless. It almost makes <i>me </i>fearless. And then you leave, and it wears off and I’m just the same spineless loser I’ve always been.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya’s hand slaps down on the counter, surprisingly loud. <i>No</i>, he signs sharply. <i>You are not. </i>He reaches out and catches hold of Asahi’s hand, pulls it closer. Slowly he strokes along the raised lines of the tendons, his touch smooth and soothing. When Asahi’s breathing has steadied he releases his hand and signs slowly: <i>We all afraid. I am afraid. Of this, </i>he taps his throat above the stoma. <i>Of future. But I learn. When afraid, don’t show. Be loud. Be FUNNY. Slowly, no more afraid. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish I knew how to do that,” says Asahi quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>When you afraid, you text me,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Nishinoya. <i>I will help. Okay?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” The word is just a ghost of a sound, hardly an echo. But Nishinoya smiles, and pushes his croissant at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Now eat!</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>They walk the rest of the way back to the apartment in near-silence, Nishinoya’s hands stuffed in his pockets and their breath fogging in the air. Even in the span of the ten minutes that they were in the bakery the night has grown darker. They walk close to each other, shoulder-to-shoulder, and when they turn off the main street Nishinoya slips his hand out of his pocket and takes Asahi’s, fingers intertwining. His heart gives a leap. </span><p>
  <span>They climb up the stairs to Asahi’s apartment and enter; the smell of citrus has fortunately faded, leaving behind just the clean scent of his laundry detergent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you like something to drink?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After last time?” texts Nishinoya, smiling wryly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll trust you.” He pours out a pair of beers and brings them out into the main room, handing one to Nishinoya and drinking deeply from the other. He sits down on the edge of the bed, and pulls back slightly when Nishinoya sits down beside him. The libero blinks at him, then sets down his drink on the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you afraid of me?” he texts, eyes wide. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Asahi says it so loudly that he winces; Nishinoya grins. “No. Not of you. But… I want you to be with someone strong and supportive. Someone who will be there for you when you need them. And I’m afraid that I’m not that person.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya tilts his head to the side quizzically. “You’ve been one of the most supportive people I’ve met,” he replies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, but that’s just… normal. That’s my job as an instructor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So having a boyfriend isn’t normal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi sighs. “Not for me. I told you – my romantic career hasn’t exactly been a success. My previous partners all wanted more from me than I could give. I disappointed all of them. I don’t want to disappoint you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Asahi-san, you disappointed them because they were looking for the wrong thing. Because you never told them what you wanted. Last time, you said you’d listen to me. Well, I’ll listen to you too. A relationship isn’t you supporting me. It’s us supporting each other.” He bumps his knee against Asahi’s and smiles. “Are we okay?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I really want this to work,” confesses Asahi, voice raw. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then let’s try,” replies Nishinoya. He reaches out, turns Asahi’s face towards him, and kisses him. It’s a tentative, exploratory kiss; he runs his tongue over Asahi’s bottom lip and tugs on it carefully before widening his mouth and leaning in more firmly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi feels a thrill run up his spine, feels heat flood his body all the way to his tingling fingers. He sighs into the kiss and feels Nishinoya’s fingers twitch against his cheek, feels the libero tilt his head to deepen the angle. Like it did on the court his anxiety quietens, his mind calming as Nishinoya’s thumb describes circles on the nape of his neck just below his bun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow with Nishinoya this close, this warm, this real, his doubts are fading like mist under bright sun. Asahi’s always fallen easy prey to dark thoughts; Nishinoya’s presence is like a burning, glowing beacon, and they flee before it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sets down his beer absently and turns to face Nishinoya full-on, wrapping his arms around the warmth of the smaller man’s shoulders and holding him close. Asahi’s eyes drift closed, his body responding to the give and take of Nishinoya’s with natural ease. He feels at home, feels comfortable. Nishinoya tastes of beer and energy drink, a strange salty mixture. The intensity is building but slowly, a long sensuous rise. He has a sensation that he’s floating somewhere relaxed and safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they break apart they’re both panting; Nishinoya’s eyes are dark and eager. With plump lips and pink cheeks he looks almost cherubic, but there’s a wickedness in his eye that no angel would understand. <i>Asahi-san</i>, he signs, and Asahi feels his heart catch. <i>Teach me what you like</i>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” he says quietly, taken aback. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I told you: I listen,</span>
  </i>
  <span> adds Nishinoya grinning toothily. <i>Teach me about you. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like,” he begins, and then starts again, signing along with his words. “I like your fingers in my hair,” he says, nearly a whisper. Nishinoya leans forward and reaches around, pulling out his elastic and combing his fingers along Asahi’s scalp. It makes his skull tingle, a shivery, anticipatory feeling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kiss me,” he says/signs, and Nishinoya does, his fingers still working through Asahi’s thick locks, brushing over the tips of his ears and finishing against the back of his neck. “Sit on my lap,” he continues when they break apart, and Nishinoya grins and scoots forward to straddle him. They move back further onto the bed, Nishinoya atop his lap. His weight over the tight fabric of Asahi’s shorts and track pants provides just enough friction to make his dick twitch. He suppresses the urge to arch his back and press himself forward. “Move your hips.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya drapes his arms over Asahi’s shoulders and starts grinding, his breathing at once intensifying, his head bobbing up and down as he cants his hips against Asahi’s. Even through several layers of clothing the pressure is strong enough that Asahi immediately starts getting hard. He feels as though he’s been immersed in an onsen; his skin, his <i>blood </i>is hot, the sensation intensely arousing. His dick is awake and aching for touch, for attention, for more. Asahi’s hands slide down to rest on Nishinoya’s hips, his fingers digging into the shallow hollows above Nishinoya’s pelvis. Nishinoya pulls himself up for a kiss and Asahi gasps into it, unprepared for the waves of pleasure that rock him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mellowness of their earlier kisses, the sensation of floating is being replaced by the friction against his cock, the feeling of Nishinoya’s own prick rubbing against his through entirely too many layers of clothes. “Take off your pants,” he says/signs when they come up for air, and when Nishinoya backs off to do so Asahi wriggles out of his own track pants. His shorts come too, and at the moment he couldn’t care less because Nishinoya has also decided to strip off his shorts and is wearing just a pair of ash-grey boxer briefs that are already bulging with his arousal, the front spotted darkly with pre-come. He catches Asahi looking at him and reaches down to stroke a hand over his dick, grin wild and wicked, and Asahi feels a heady breath escape him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Touch me,” he says/signs. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Where? </span>
  </i>
  <span>Asks Nishinoya. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi swallows. “Touch my dick. Please,” he adds, because he is not the kind of person who orders people to satisfy him. But Nishinoya seems more than happy to take the suggestion; he climbs back onto the bed on all fours like a cat, eyes gleaming. He stops when his knees are against Asahi’s; he reaches down and gently pushes Asahi’s legs apart so that he falls back on his ass. Then Nishinoya’s reaching up with one hand to stroke his cheek while the other trails down, down, down, over his stomach and over the low stretch of his torso to the cotton of his underwear. Nishinoya palms his hand over Asahi’s cock and he shudders. It’s the first time anyone’s touched him in almost a year, the first time anyone’s elicited such excitement from his embarrassing body. Nishinoya’s pressing kisses to his neck as he strokes, warm, wet kisses that melt like snowflakes on his hot skin. The libero’s hand rises and he thumbs along the line of Asahi’s underwear, looking up with raised eyebrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please. I want your hand on my dick.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya raises his hand to spit into his palm, then slips it down beneath the elastic, his touch deft. The warm wetness is amazing, the tight grip on his cock sets him to panting, his pulse thrumming in his ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not too much… I don’t want to come yet,” he pleads. The libero keeps his strokes slow, his grip strong but not too strong, his rhythm sweet rather than stern. He’s focusing on pleasure, not forcing Asahi towards orgasm. Asahi works Nishinoya’s shirt off while his cock is slowly worshipped, revealing pale skin and toned muscles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look incredible,” he sighs, and means it. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Asahi-san,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Nishinoya one-handed, and seeing his fingers flit through the signs while his eyes are heavy-lidded and his other hand is down Asahi’s briefs does something strange to Asahi’s heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It makes him wonder how he ever imagined he could give this up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s never been so confident, so at peace while making love before. Sex has always been some harried, anxious event for him, has been fumbling and awkward and embarrassing. He’s never had a partner who listened to him, or at least one who actively prioritized his comfort. He wants more. He wants to feel what he never has, to come not because he’s been rushed into a frenzied rutting but because someone is loving his body. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yuu,” he pants. “Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Please what? </span>
  </i>
  <span>Signs Nishinoya, smiling smugly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you fuck me?” he says/signs. “I want you. I want all of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Ask again. Just with these. Just for me,</span>
  </i>
  <span> he slips his hand out of Asahi’s underwear and catches hold of Asahi’s thick fingers with both of his delicate hands, brings them to his lips and kisses them before releasing them expectantly. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Fuck me,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Asahi. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya’s grin is electric. He mimes a bottle of lube, and Asahi taps the side of the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In the drawer under the head of the bed,” he says. Nishinoya lunges to the side and drags it open, fumbling in it until he finds the bottle. To Asahi’s surprise he goes back, looking this time, and comes up with a hungry smile and a condom. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Can I? </span>
  </i>
  <span>he asks, and mimes taking off his boxer-briefs. Asahi nods dizzily and he reaches out and pulls Asahi’s briefs off revealing the flushed, erect length of his prick. <i>Great dick, Asahi-san</i>, he signs, words Asahi has never before seen strung together; he blushes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Nishinoya is pushing him down onto the bed, pulling his knees wide and shimmying between them so he’s lying between Asahi’s legs, his chin propped up just below the pelvic bone, Asahi’s prick hanging fat and thick beside his neck. He raises himself up and presses kisses down the line of dark hair that leads to Asahi’s groin, while his hand pops open the lube and pours some onto the fingers of his right hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi loses track of those fingers almost immediately because Nishinoya presses a kiss to the come-tipped end of his cock, tongue swirling over it brazenly. Asahi’s legs slip further apart instinctively, his cock aching, and a moment later there’s a slick finger tracing over his entrance. Nishinoya teases the muscle for nearly a minute, skirting it, stroking it, pressing in lightly but not committing, until Asahi is a sweating, shivering mess. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please,” he moans. Nishinoya gives a satisfied suck of his dick, and slips the finger in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya’s fingers are not that large but the pressure of the penetration is surprisingly firm. Nishinoya sinks his finger in knuckle-deep and then starts stroking, a slow, seductive rhythm. Asahi’s ready for more soon and he slips in a second finger, two more than twice one. Asahi groans and lifts his hips off the bed, pressing himself down towards Nishinoya who reciprocates by stroking firmly over his prostate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi’s never had a very sensitive prostate; the pressure is pleasant but not the orgasm-inducing sensation he’s read about. He rocks his hips gently against Nishinoya’s fingers while the libero slowly laps at his cock; he’s suffused with arousal, brimming with it, but he’s not ready to come yet and he revels in the prickling, grinding heat Nishinoya is causing in him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A third finger is added and Asahi tilts his head back to take a deep breath. His ass is begging to be pounded, his cock hungry for a more intense rhythm. “Yuu,” he pants, “don’t make me wait anymore. Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warmth disappears from his cock and Nishinoya looks up, grinning coyly. His slick fingers slide out of Asahi’s ass: a sudden, distressing loss. <i>Now I fuck you</i>, he signs. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Yes,</span>
  </i>
  <span> replies Asahi, dropping his head to hit the pillow. He hears Nishinoya tear open the condom; a moment later it occurs to him that he wants to see his partner in full and he looks up just as Nishinoya shimmies out of his boxer-briefs. His cock is short and swollen, not much longer than his fingers but certainly wider. A moment later he’s rolling the condom over it and lifting Asahi’s legs; Asahi hooks them up, unashamedly exposed for perhaps the first time. Nishinoya cants forward and presses a kiss to the inside of Asahi’s knee: <i>So beautiful, Asahi-san</i>, he signs, and Asahi’s stomach turns over at the sight of his shining slick fingers describing his name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he’s lining up and pushing in, a bright, tight, intense pressure that makes Asahi’s spine curve, his cock aching. “Oh fuck, Yuu,” he moans, and then Nishinoya’s inside him and pressing deeper, his hips slowly inching forward, plundering Asahi’s ass. <i>Okay? </i>He signs, and Asahi nods brokenly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Just… go slow.” <i>Slow</i>, he signs belatedly, mind having trouble focusing. He’s awash with sensation, all pleasant but in different ways: the slow, molten, needy core of his ass; the waves of searing want washing outwards from his cock, a pleasant tingle in his nipples, a thick twisting hunger in his gut. Then Nishinoya <i>moves</i> and all of the sudden he’s not many disparate parts but only one, a beast whose only thought is for the short, tight thrusts pounding into his ass and making him tremble. He catches hold of his pillow and buries his fingers in it while he watches Nishinoya, the libero’s face tense with frustrated want. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Nishinoya catches his rhythm the immediacy fades slightly, Asahi’s breathing evening out. He won’t come from being fucked alone, he knows; he needs to be touched too. He reaches down to take himself in hand, but Nishinoya pushes his hand back and wraps his own slick fingers around Asahi’s cock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s like someone tossed a match into a keg of gunpowder. Asahi’s spine snaps back, his hips pushing forward and burying Nishinoya balls deep inside him as he gasps. In the few minutes since Nishinoya’s mouth was on his cock it’s become ridiculously sensitive, and the feel of the libero’s lube-slicked palm on the swollen flesh melts straight to his core. He keens, mumbling “Yes,” or “Yuu” or “More” or maybe all three, riding the wave of arousal precipitously towards the crest. Nishinoya’s pumping his cock hard as he thrusts in, his skin slick with sweat, his hand tight, his eyes dark. His rhythm is no longer gentle, is all force and hunger and need. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi wants him. Wants him more than he’s ever wanted anything. More than he wanted Tokyo, more than he wanted the Centre, more than he wanted Nationals. This is everything, is his whole world, is a mile of need crammed into an inch, and he’s panting wetly as Nishinoya drives into him. He’s becoming something new, something else, some<i>one</i> else, someone satisfied and upright and fearless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yuu,” he groans, and as the libero rubs his thumb over Asahi’s slit, he comes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya milks him through it, jerking him off and driving Asahi back into the bed. His own chin is back high, his breaths coming in deep, his chest gleaming with sweat. He grabs Asahi’s legs and tilts them upwards, deepening his angle so that he’s rutting full into Asahi’s ass. And then, silently, his face tenses and he comes, drilling into Asahi. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he’s finished thrusting he pulls out and sits back while Asahi pulls his legs together and then reaches up, drawing Nishinoya down to lie beside him. His heartbeat is settling, his sweat cooling on his skin, but Nishinoya is still warm next to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was that okay?” asks Asahi after a minute. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya looks over at him. Then, reaching up, he turns Asahi to face him and leans forward to kiss him. It’s tired and tender, just a gentle echo of their intensity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess that’s a yes,” he says softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Fuck yes,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Nishinoya, and kisses him again.  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. New Yuu</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Their romantic fondling soon loses its charm in the chill of Asahi’s poorly-heated apartment. Nishinoya gets up and sheds his condom in the garbage; Asahi follows and pulls him through to the bathroom. “We should get cleaned up. And warmed up.” He turns on the showerhead and pulls it down, wetting a facecloth with warm water and handing it to Nishinoya.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To his surprise Nishinoya presses himself close, running his fingers over the wide stretch of Asahi’s chest as his other hand works the cloth down Asahi’s back and lower, slipping between his cheeks and cleaning him carefully. Asahi’s breath catches, stuttering, as he feels a pulsing warmth spread from his core outwards. His legs spread themselves and he blushes, distracting himself by using the hose to wash the sweat from their stomachs and legs. Nishinoya brings the cloth around, looking up with a sultry smile, and runs it over Asahi’s cum-speckled abs and down, the damp terrycloth soft and warm on his sensitive flesh.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he’s done with Asahi he cleans himself off, clearly revelling obscenely in the feel of the cloth against his short dick, and then cursorily cleans his stomach and legs. Asahi shuts off the water and grabs a towel, handing it to Nishinoya first; he towels himself roughly and passes it over to Asahi. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Asahi says, face warm. “That was nice. I mean – better than nice! It was great, really, and…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya puts a hand over his heart and smiles. Asahi stutters to a stop and looks down at him. The libero’s eyes are soft and content, his mouth upturned in a sweet smile. He looks fulfilled, relaxed. Utterly comfortable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” says Asahi, surprised but also pleased. Pleased that Nishinoya is happy, is satisfied with him – with the two of them together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>You’re great too, Asahi-san,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Nishinoya. Then he shivers theatrically. <i>But now cold!</i>  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” exclaims Asahi. He folds the towel over its bar and they return to the main room, pulling their clothes back on. It would have been awkward, but Nishinoya keeps waggling his eyebrows suggestively at Asahi as he slowly dresses himself, stretching gracefully to show off his muscle tone, and Asahi can’t help but smile at the ridiculous look. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Asahi’s done the PS3 catches his eye and he wanders over it to slot one of the new CDs into its maw. L’Arc-en-Ciel begins playing with a solo guitar strumming; Asahi sets the volume low and turns. Nishinoya’s sitting on the bed with his phone out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Asahi-san – I thought you didn’t know anything about rock,” he types, smiling coyly. Asahi’s ears heat up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“After talking to you, I wanted to listen to some,” he says. “I hope that’s okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya cants his head to the side, expression amused. “Are you asking me for permission to play my favourite music?” he asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi rubs at the back of his head, his loose hair tumbling down against his neck. “Um. I guess?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Asahi-san, you’re adorable. Now come here and teach me what you showed me earlier.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi swallows and comes over to sit beside him. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>They go through a slow, fumbling teaching process, Asahi’s face growing redder and redder as he takes Nishinoya through the signs he used earlier and more – <i>screw, lick, ride, suck, swallow.</i> In the background the music plays on, rich rifts and raw voices. </span><p>
  <span>“We’ll need to practice more,” types Nishinoya, grinning, as Asahi exhausts his vocabulary. “But it’s a good start.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now what?” asks Asahi. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Guitar Hero,” replies Nishinoya. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>They play for more than an hour; Nishinoya’s less experienced than Asahi but considerably more exuberant, striking poses and head-banging as he plays along. They finally have the opportunity to finish their beers which have been quietly going flat for the past hour, and Asahi brings out a second round. </span><p>
  <span>“I meant it, you know,” types Nishinoya during a pause after a surprise win, “about asking you to come with me to Kenma’s company.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi absently wonders when Nishinoya got to be on a first-name basis with Kozume; he resigns himself to the fact that Nishinoya will be on a first-name basis with his whole team before Asahi, who has been playing with them for a year, is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” says Asahi, cautiously.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought we could go tomorrow during our 1:1 time,” he suggests. “I’ve already got it booked off at the school.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi knows from Suga that teachers and coaches work long hours and rarely get time off in the day; his schedule is doubtless much more flexible than Nishinoya’s. “Okay,” he says again, nodding.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you’ll do it?” asks Nishinoya. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi looks at him helplessly. Ultimately, he realises, he was always going to give in. Because he already knows he doesn’t want to give this man up. “Yes,” he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Great!” Nishinoya chugs the rest of his beer and slams the glass down on the floor beside the bed. “One more round!”</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Nishinoya leaves around dinnertime after a prolonged kiss that threatens to become more heated. Eventually they’re interrupted by Asahi’s stomach growling and Nishinoya breaks away. <i>Okay, I go,</i> he signs. <i>See you tomorrow!</i></span><p>
  <span>Asahi nods and he leaves, door clicking closed behind him, leaving Asahi alone with two empty beer glasses and the intro music to Guitar Hero playing. He returns to the main room and slumps down on his bed. If he closes his eyes, he can still remember the feel of Nishinoya’s hands on him, strong and sure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pulls his arms and legs in tight, savouring the sensation, and smiles. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Asahi’s still smiling on Monday when Suga comes in, five minutes late and hurrying hard. He’s panting, scarf crooked, and apologizes as he shuts the door. “Sorry! I missed my train.” He turns and considers Asahi. “You look suspiciously happy,” he accuses.</span><p>
  <span>“Sorry?” tries Asahi, failing to wipe the smile from his face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You <i>are </i>in a good mood. Monday morning and your first student is late, and you’re smiling. What’s your secret Asahi?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dedication?” suggests Asahi, trying for hauteur and failing miserably. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not a certain libero?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If I’ve ever heard a no that sounded like a yes, that was it. Did he come to your game? Did he sweep you off your feet? Did he take you home?” asks Suga, leaning forward. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Suga…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Asahi, I spend my day teaching 7 year-olds the names of flowers. Be kind. Share.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi sighs. Suga has an irresistible charm – and also the ability to refuse to change the topic until the cows come home. “I took him home,” he replies. “It was great. He was great. He was strong and kind and very, very good to me. He listens,” he adds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga’s face has transitioned from a goading grim to a quieter, more genuine smile. “I’m glad. I’m really glad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know what will happen, but… I want this to work. He’s so brave that it almost makes me brave, Suga. Almost makes me a better person.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t sell yourself short. You bring a lot to your relationships. You’re a gift, and Nishinoya is lucky to have found you. Remember to value yourself, always.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods. “Thanks Suga.” He settles himself more comfortably in his chair. <i>Today, let’s talk about work</i>, he signs. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Nishinoya texts him the address and directions to Kozume’s company office in Ikkebukuro, and Asahi takes the subway there. He sees Nishinoya on the street ahead of him as he walks up, the orange jacket shining in the pale fall light. “Yuu!” he calls, waving, and Nishinoya turns and grins. </span><p>
  <i>
    <span>Asahi-san!</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The building is an older 8 storey one with wide strip windows. Inside the doorway is a guide to the different floors; Kozume’s company is on 5-8. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I’ll text him</span>
  </i>
  <span>, signs Nishinoya, and Asahi waits as he sends the message. <i>Do you know what he does? </i>Asks Nishinoya as they wait. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s a software developer. He started out programming smartphone games, but he’s been moving up the chain fast; he’s got a real genius when it comes to predicting what the market wants.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The elevator dings and Kozume waves them in; they crowd inside and he thumbs the button for the 7<sup>th</sup> floor. “Thanks for coming,” he says softly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks for the invite,” replies Nishinoya. “This is very cool.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kozume’s lips flutter briefly, just the barest of smiles. The elevator dings and they exit into a cube farm. Kozume leads them around the edge of the slate-grey cubicles, each its own tiny world with laptop, dual screens, phone, and swivel chair. They’re all full, men and women staring intently at their monitors and typing away. The room is nearly silent except for the click of keyboards and mice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi is suddenly, intently glad he’s not in software development. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kozume takes them past the cubes to a meeting room at the end of the hall. The room is empty with six chairs, a large-screen LED mounted on the wall and a teleconference phone. There’s a laptop already set up on the table; Kozume motions Nishinoya to it and takes a seat beside him. Asahi sits on the other side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Open on the screen is an unfamiliar program showing two rows of five blue buttons each, with an empty text box below. “This is our interface for the program. A user would see a much simpler version with their options already selected – either on their phone or computer. The retail version comes with samples of course, but it doesn’t allow you to type your own sample text. We use this interface to add or modify voices, but it allows you to test all of them as well. Male on the left and female on the right. If you select one, then you can type a test for it and hit enter. I recommend making sure to test your name – sometimes the pronunciation is a little off and that can be a deal-breaker.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The voices are labelled simply numerically; Nishinoya selects the first one and types, “Nishinoya Yuu, ace libero, exceptional coach, and hot as fuck.” He hits enter and a rough, stentorian voice of about 60 reads his words. Nishinoya nearly falls out of his seat cough-laughing. “Oh man, grandpa voice!” he types, and his words are read out by the older voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the obvious mismatch, though, Asahi can already hear the improvements. It’s not simply an alternate voice to the female one currently reading Nishinoya’s words. There’s some kind of audio mixing that’s working to smooth the sentences out so that it’s not a set of disjointed words but something more closely resembling regular speech. The cadence is still off, but it’s much improved. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya selects the second voice and types, “Man of mystery, a lover for all seasons, irresistible to everyone who meets him – Nishinoya Yuu.” The voice that reads it out is younger, although still mature, the tone deep and resonant. Nishinoya shakes his head. “Way too serious,” he types. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Selecting the third, this time he types, “Love may always find a way but so does Nishinoya Yuu, a gift who just keeps on giving.” This time the voice is softer, more relaxed. The tone is higher, a tenor rather than a bass. Nishinoya sticks his tongue in his cheek, considering. After a minute he clicks to the next one. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The man, the myth, the legend – dodging bullets, dodging balls, making digs no one else could: Nishinoya Yuu.” The fourth voice is young, probably a man in his early 20s, cool and casual. It’s just slightly deeper than the last. Nishinoya stares at the screen, then slowly clicks the last option. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nishinoya Yuu, a drink for all ages,” he types and hits enter. The voice is thinner than the others and higher, not easy to take seriously. Nishinoya shakes his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>3 or 4</span>
  </i>
  <span>, he signs to Asahi.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Try them again,” suggests Asahi. “Talk to me, this time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya blinks. Then he selects the third option and composes a longer message. “I’ve been thinking about your team. About me. It was really frustrating being on the sidelines. It’s like that a little with the kids, but with you… I really want to play with you.” The softer voice reads it out – it’s not quite mellow, but is an easy tone, calm and confident. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll do anything I can to help,” says Asahi. “We can register you with our team. If you’re libero you can choose when to switch in and out and not put too much pressure on yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya switches the toggle to the fourth option and replies, “I think it’s something I have to get used to. I’ve never played without giving it my all. Holding myself back… I don’t know if I can. But I want to try.” The younger voice makes it somehow more eager and less serious. He switches the toggle back to the third voice and hits enter, having it repeat the same words. More sedate, it makes more of an impression. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I like this one. What do you think?” he types, with the softer, confident voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s up to you, but I think this one is more reassuring. It makes you sound thoughtful and certain. The other one… more off-handed,” he says, struggling to describe the impact they have on him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am both those things,” types Nishinoya.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I could see about a trial so you could have access to both,” suggests Kozume. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya shakes his head. “Uh-uh. We’re not drawing this out. I don’t need more uncertainty in my life.” He looks to Asahi. “Which one would you rather fuck? Mr Confident, or Mr Cool?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi chokes a little; he catches Kozume’s mouth twisting into a slight smile. But truthfully, it’s not a hard decision. “Mr Confident,” he says softly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good choice,” agrees Nishinoya. “I like it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kozume nods. “You can select that voice and download the app; one license will allow you to use it on both your phone and your computer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya grins at him. “Thanks Kenma!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kozume blinks laconically. “Happy to help.”</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><i><br/>  <span>Thanks for coming, </span><br/></i><span>signs Nishinoya as they take the elevator down. <i>I’m happy!</i></span><p>
  <span>Asahi smiles. <i>I’m glad. I think you made a good choice. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Me too. </span>
  </i>
  <span>He reaches out and, as the elevator nears the first floor, rises to his tip-toes to kiss Asahi. The elevator judders as it reaches the ground floor and he misses, kissing Asahi’s jaw instead as the door opens. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a shocked-looking businessman standing in the foyer; he skirts them widely while staring. Asahi reddens but Nishinoya seems unaffected. “I licked all the buttons,” he calls as the doors close. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yuu,” says Asahi, half-amused, half-exasperated. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya rolls his eyes and produces his phone. “Like two men kissing should be so shocking.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“To a lot of people, it is,” says Asahi softly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m loud and proud, Asahi-san,” replies Nishinoya. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi smiles faintly. “I’ve noticed. But I wouldn’t mind being discreet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You want to hide our light under a bushel?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighs, fiddling with the buttons of his coat. “I don’t like confrontation. It’s not that I’m ashamed or anything, but… I don’t deal well with aggression, or disappointment.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya’s smile is wolfish. “So no kissing you on the street?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you can restrain yourself,” replies Asahi. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The libero puts his hand over Asahi’s heart, an unexpected moment of stillness. <i>For you, I try, </i>he signs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Thank you, Yuu. </span>
  </i>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm thinking 3-4 more chapters, just as a head's up. Thanks everyone for all your encouragement and support to date. :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Return of the King</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>On Tuesday Yamaguchi comes in, eyes shadowed and quieter than usual. He’s not wearing his usual self-deprecating smile, is staring at the desk instead of Asahi.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Is everything okay?</span>
  </i>
  <span> Asks Asahi, as they get started. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yamaguchi blinks. <i>It’s… well… I saw doctor yesterday. He says it’s worse. My HEARING is worse. All I do is try to remember… Remember music, remember birds singing, remember Tsukki’s voice. </i>His lip wobbles. <i>But I know I will forget. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi’s heart twists. It’s stories like this that are the hardest, people living through loss, actively feeling their abilities drain away day by day. His pity twines with guilt: he’s been spending so much time focusing on Nishinoya that he’s neglected to really think about how his other students are coping. <i>I’m sorry,</i> he signs. <i>Does Tsukishima-san know?</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yamaguchi nods. <i>He is angry. Not at me,</i> he adds, waving his hands. <i>He doesn’t SHOW it, either. But he is. Angry for me. At least it’s not him losing HEARING. He loves music too much, </i>signs Yamaguchi slowly, smiling sadly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi focuses on keeping his expression calm and comforting. <i>Please don’t diminish (DIMINISH) the impact on yourself, Yamaguchi-san. You need help and support. From friends, family and your employer (EMPLOYER). Do you feel supported?</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>By Tsukki, always. My family too. My employer… </span>
  </i>
  <span>he shrugs. <i>They want to help. But I don’t know I can stay there. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>If you need help or support for them, I know some good resources, </span>
  </i>
  <span>Asahi tells him. Yamaguchi nods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Thank you.</span>
  </i>
  <span> Yamaguchi pushes his hair away from his face, tucking the wayward strands behind his ears and taking a slow breath. <i>Can we talk about something else?</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Of course. </span>
  </i>
  <span>Asahi changes the topic. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Afternoon. Asahi’s nervous about today’s class. The session with Yamaguchi that morning has reminded him that he has two members who are struggling with their own issues – Kageyama and Yamaguchi – as well as the new dynamic between Nishinoya and himself to contest with. He considers over-structuring the group to keep any awkwardness under control, but he already implemented two quite structured groups last week and wants to leave the door open for the others to support those who are struggling. Despite their crude humour and over-personalization, everyone in the group is supportive of each other. </span><p>
  <span>So, without props this session, he heads down to the basement in later afternoon and gets the room set up. For the first time Nishinoya and Tanaka are the first to arrive. Asahi catches Tanaka’s eye and feels a sudden surge of anxiety, but the coach nods at him firmly. Nishinoya throws himself across the room and into Asahi’s arms, capturing his lips in a quick kiss when Asahi bends, surprised. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yuu! This is group time,” he says, rising up and blushing to his roots. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>No one here,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Nishinoya, sticking out his tongue. He backs away all the same, though, perching on the armrest of the closest chair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tanaka-san is here,” protests Asahi faintly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Ryuu knows, </span>
  </i>
  <span>replies Nishinoya, leaning back and kicking his feet out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, don’t mind me,” says Tanaka, checking his phone. “I’ll just third-wheel it up over here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s really not necessary,” says Asahi, but Tanaka glances up. For just an instant Asahi wonders if this is going to turn exceptionally awkward, but then Tanaka smiles lightly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You guys don’t get a lot of time. Noya-san’s got coaching five and a half days a week. Don’t waste the time you have,” he says, eyes on Asahi. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks,” says Asahi, and means it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Besides, someone just uploaded a dump of new Schweiden Alders videos. I’m busy here.” He looks back down to his phone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you download the new software?” asks Asahi, turning back to Nishinoya. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Yes! Want to hear?</span>
  </i>
  <span> He grins and pulls out his phone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya’s fingers fly across the screen, composing his message. “Still getting used to it, but already so much better,” the new male voice reads out, collected and relaxed. The words flow almost fluidly together, somehow auto-tuned to remove the jarring cuts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It sounds great. Are you happy with it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya nods. “Yes! I feel much more comfortable, especially with strangers,” he types. As the phone is reading out the sentence Suga, Yamaguchi and Hinata come in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“New voice, Noya-san?” asks Suga, coming over. Yamaguchi and Hinata are involved in their own conversation via signs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes! Good, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s much better,” agrees Suga. “Not at all jarring, and easy to listen to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not the same as my voice, but it’s not so strange either,” types Nishinoya. Asahi wonders whether, like Yamaguchi, he’s saving up his memories of his own voice, is trying to remember the sound of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Daichi, Kageyama and Tsukishima all come in together, hair and coat lapels disarrayed by the wind outside. Asahi lets everyone take their seats organically, seating himself between Yamaguchi and Daichi. When he judges they’ve had enough time for greetings he raises his hand and the chatter – both vocal and signed – stops. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Good evening everyone, </span>
  </i>
  <span>he signs. <i>Today I would like us to talk about our jobs. It’s helpful to talk about the tasks you do every day to gain familiarity with that vocabulary. Please take a few minutes to plan a short speech about your work. Tell us where you work, what you do every day, what you enjoy, and what you don’t like. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a long explanation and he watches carefully to make sure they’ve all understood at least the just of it. He sees nods and a few quick support signs in the circle, and then they’re all sitting silently, planning their speeches. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gives them three minutes, by the end of which time Hinata is wriggling in his seat and Tsukishima looks ready to doze off, and calls on Hinata first to give the others a little more time to prepare. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Well!</span>
  </i>
  <span> Starts Hinata. <i>I work as a driver for Yamato Transport. I pick up packages from hotels and conbinis and take them to the warehouse. I don’t work delivery because I can’t use INTERCOMS. I’m in my truck all day every day, picking up packages, loading them, and dropping them off. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>The best part is driving all around Tokyo and getting to find shortcuts and secret ways through the city! I’m a wicked driver, although the van’s kinda sluggish. Worst is having to sit still for so long. I guess in school, all I dreamed about was volleyball. Having to get a real job… that was hard,</span>
  </i>
  <span> he signs. His expression is sober, his usual smile absent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I’m sorry about your dream,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Suga, his soft brown eyes compassionate. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Now I have Kageyama – I dream through him,</span>
  </i>
  <span> replies Hinata. Kageyama shifts quietly but doesn’t add anything. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Next: Sawamura-san, please,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Asahi. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Daichi talks about being a policeman, his vocabulary slowly expanding as Asahi, Hinata and even Yamaguchi help him along. Suga goes next and talks more confidently about being a teacher, the ups and downs of spending your entire day with 7 year-olds. Nishinoya and Tanaka both talk about coaching in a high school, about the satisfaction of seeing their teams succeed and the heart-break of failure. </span><p>
  <span>Yamaguchi shyly talks about working in an electronics store, but being relegated more and more to online ordering and product inspection rather than customer service. Asahi observes Tsukishima growing restless as he describes his fears: losing interaction, losing friendship with colleagues, losing his job. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I guess the worst part is that my world is getting so much smaller,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Yamaguchi finally, staring at the floor. <i>So small and silent.</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>That’s not true!</span>
  </i>
  <span> Signs Hinata.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tsukishima snaps in, signs harsh and sharp, eyes steely behind his glasses. <i>Of course it’s true. He has me – and who else? His work just HIDES him away. His friends stop calling. People are IGNORANT ASSHOLES. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Tsukki… </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Yamaguchi, looking awkward. <i>It’s hard for them too… </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Don’t make excuses, Yamaguchi, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs back Tsukishima snappishly. <i>They’re WASTES of SPACE.  </i> </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Then make new friends. The deaf community will support you, Yamaguchi-san! We’re very open and very friendly. We know what it’s like. I can help you, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Hinata. <i>There are many of us in Tokyo. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Hinata-san…</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hinata nods fiercely. <i>I mean it. We support each other. I’ll introduce you.</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I would like that. Thank you,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Yamaguchi. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tsukishima goes next; he’s a graduate student in archaeology intending to take a teaching track and stay in the university sphere. <i>And I can support two</i>, he signs flatly, looking around the room as if seeking out doubters. No one comments. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama goes last. <i>I play volleyball in the PRO league, </i>he signs slowly. Although his movements are smooth for the most part, he’s struggling to find the words. <i>I have played since… </i>he looks to Hinata, who prompts him, and adds <i>Middle School. Now I play with SCHWEIDEN ALDERS. Best is doing what I love. Worst is not much time… </i>he looks at Hinata again, lost.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Free time,</span>
  </i>
  <span> prompts Hinata, eyebrow twitching. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Free time, </span>
  </i>
  <span>finishes Kageyama. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>But you’re going to the Olympics,</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Nishinoya, enthusiastic. <i>It’s so cool!</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Yes. But still can’t JSL, </span>
  </i>
  <span>replies Kageyama </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>No kidding, </span>
  </i>
  <span>puts in Hinata. <i>Really, Kageyama-kun, you need to put in more effort. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>What?</span>
  </i>
  <span> Signs Kageyama. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hinata gives him a sharp-eyed look. <i>STUDY MORE, </i>he signs impatiently, gestures curt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama’s eye twitches. <i>I’m trying, dumbass</i>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Try harder! </span>
  </i>
  <span>His face sets in a frown. <i>You work so hard at volleyball. But at this? It’s like you don’t care. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama is scowling now, trying hard to keep up with Hinata and growing more irritated with what he sees. Asahi raises his hands appealingly, but they both ignore him. Everyone else is watching the drama with varying degrees of discomfort. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Of course care! But it’s hard! I’m bad school, </span>
  </i>
  <span>he signs brokenly. <i>You know that! All you SEE in me is volleyball. I’m MORE than that!</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Since when? </span>
  </i>
  <span>Snaps Hinata sharply. <i>All you care about is volleyball. Don’t you want me to care about that too?</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>All YOU care about is volleyball. You talk about me always; you GRAM about me; you run my YOUTUBE. Are you DATING me, or volleyball? You can’t LIVE through me,</span>
  </i>
  <span> replies Kageyama, face tense and breathing hard. His signs sloppy now. <i>Stop trying. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hinata slams to his feet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Calm down, dumbass,” says Kageyama sharply.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<i>I can’t hear you!</i>” shouts Hinata in his deaf accent, tone angry and hurt, and slams out of the room. His coat lies forgotten on the back of the chair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama stares after him dumbly. Then he stands, grabs Hinata’s coat, and runs after him. Silence follows their departure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I think we should call it a night, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Asahi after a few beats of silence; it’s clear no one’s mind is on the session anymore, and it’s close to seven. <i>I’ll see everyone on Thursday. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gets up, forces a smile, and slips out. Flees upstairs to his office, closes the door, and sinks down into the visitor’s chair. He’s had scenes before, mostly frustrated beginners failing to learn. But never such a fundamental disagreement from an established couple. He feels responsible, feels like a failure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a knock on the door and then Nishinoya is slipping in. He sits down in the second chair beside Asahi. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’ll get over it,” he types, the tone soothing and calm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t know that. They’re both so… <i>abrupt</i>. So intense. And neither of them has much patience. It’s clear they have issues that have been festering for a while. Maybe even years. It can’t be easy for Hinata to be living with a man who has the dream life he wanted for himself. It can’t be easy for Kageyama living up to that – or feeling like a failure for letting down his partner. He may not even really understand Hinata – Hinata has been deaf since birth and seems to cope so well. He might be hiding just how much he struggles, may be internalizing his pain. Maybe they’re really in trouble.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re both idiots, but I think they both really care,” replies Nishinoya slowly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that enough?” asks Asahi, depressed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It can be, if they want it to be.” Nishinoya bumps his knee with his own and smiles. “Cheer up, Asahi-san. It’ll be okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi sighs. “I hope so.”</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>He gets an email from Kageyama that night. </span><p>
  <i>
    <span>Azumane-san, Hinata has asked me to apologize for us. We behaved badly today and disrupted the group. As you can tell, we’re both struggling with our situation. If it’s okay, I’d like to talk to you tomorrow – not for a session, just for some advice. Can we do that?</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Kageyama Tobio</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi replies in the affirmative. He also gets a text from Nishinoya asking if they can spend some time together after Thursday’s class – Tanaka has volunteered to take the evening practice. Smiling now, Asahi replies yes to that as well. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Asahi spends some time at work the next morning reading about Kageyama Tobio. Most of it he knew already – genius setter, high school prodigy who brought his team to the Nationals twice and attended the Japan youth camp. It’s what he learns from the small private fan sites that sheds more light; they talk about Kageyama’s fierce drive to succeed at all costs, his impatience with failure in others, his nickname: King of the Court. </span><p>
  <span>When the man finally comes in what Asahi sees is not a top athlete in absolute control of his team and surroundings. He sees someone coming to pieces. Kageyama’s toned skin looks almost sallow, his eyes shadowed and his lips dry and chapped. He has a hollow, empty look in his cobalt eyes, the bitter look of failure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kageyama-san,” greets Asahi, surprised at the deterioration in his appearance. He comes in and drops into one of the two visitor’s chairs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks for agreeing to talk with me,” he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You look… tired.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hinata and I tried to work things out last night. But mostly we just fought. I think… I think I may have been very ignorant about him, Azumane-san,” he admits slowly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In what way?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In our relationship, we’ve always had good communication. Well… maybe it’s better to say we’ve always understood each other. We don’t speak very much, but somehow we’ve always known what the other wants. It started when we were playing together on the court; I <i>knew </i>where he would be, what he could do. Because he always seemed to understand me, I just assumed… it just seemed like he understood everything. I never saw him struggling, although of course he messed up sometimes and got instructions wrong.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hinata-san was in a separate class for middle school and high school I assume?” asks Asahi.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah; he had his own JSL teacher.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you never saw him working in an academic setting. And he never saw you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama nods. “That’s right. I mean, he knows my grades were shit; his were too. I barely made it into uni even after being scouted.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was thinking more that you’ve always seen Hinata-san as strong and confident when it comes to his interactions with the world. You haven’t seen him struggle to fit in, struggle to learn to communicate in a way others understand. He didn’t just learn signing in school, he would have learned to speak as well. And that’s incredibly difficult and potentially deeply embarrassing for deaf people. Their accent marks them as different, sometimes even as <i>less</i>,” explains Asahi. “People assume all sorts of unkind things about them because of it, when in reality they’ve struggled for years to learn to communicate with us while we’ve done nothing to learn to communicate with them.” He takes a breath and realises that he’s on the edge of his seat, hands tense on the desk. He sits back and loosens up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t mean to lecture you, Kageyama-san. It’s just… I’ve seen it happen with my sister. I’ve seen the work she’s gone through, the sweat and tears to get where she is. Not many others have that view into her struggles. It’s probably the same for Hinata-san.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. I mean… I know that now. He was very clear last night that he feels like he’s been doing all the work in our relationship to communicate. He knows I’m trying with the JSL. But he doesn’t feel like I’m trying enough. And he’s probably right. I’ve been barely managing 30 minutes a night of studying, sometimes less.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you practice with him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sometimes. But he goes so fast, and he gets frustrated having to slow down for me all the time. It’s easier a lot of the time if I can just work on trying to memorize the signs.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see,” says Asahi. “Have you considered approaching him not as a conversation partner but as a teacher?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama looks considering, flexing his fingers as if warming up to toss. “I mean… He tried to teach me a couple of times before, when I was in university. But I was so busy, and frankly he’s not a good teacher. That’s why we took this program.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can understand that. But maybe what you need is to shift both your assumptions. You need to treat Hinata-san as an expert, not an equal right now when it comes to JSL. And he needs to see you as a learner.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see…” He looks thoughtful. “I guess I could try. I think he’d appreciate that,” he says, a little uncertain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi tilts his chair back slightly, watchful. “There’s something else, Kageyama-san. This might be too personal, and it’s not strictly about Hinata-san’s experiences as a deaf man, but I did see a lot of tension yesterday surrounding your pro career.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama reaches up and drags a tired hand through his hair. “Yeah; I really fucked that up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was clear you both had significant differences of opinion,” replies Asahi carefully. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama sighs. “I know. It’s something that’s been bothering me for a while… for a long time, actually. I know he loves me, I know he’s mostly happy in our relationship. But… he wanted a pro career so badly. Sometimes he smothers me with it, with that want, until I feel like he wants me as a pro player first and his boyfriend second. But that’s my own issue, not something I should have brought into this problem.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s good that you recognize that. It doesn’t mean it’s not important, and you certainly should talk it through with Hinata-san. But it’s not the same as his struggles to communicate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The setter nods, eyes intense. “I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi sets his hands on the desk, weaving the fingers together. In his mind’s eye he still has the sharp image of Hinata leaping to his feet and storming out, his words hanging in the air <i>I can’t hear you! </i>“If there’s one thing I think I heard very clearly from Hinata-san yesterday, it’s that he doesn’t think you understand his disability. If I were you, I would focus your attention first on talking to him about that. Ask him about his experiences, about the life he leads when you’re not together. Try to understand not just his abilities, but his struggles. He might be hesitant to share them with you, but it’s important you understand. Does that help?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s one last question you have to ask yourself, Kageyama-san. If your career is preventing you from spending the time you need to communicate with Hinata-san, is it worth it? I’m not here to judge you, or to tell you how you should answer. But clearly things aren’t working right now. And that means you have to assess your priorities.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama’s jaw is tense, his eyes hard. “They’re both important to me,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. But right now, I think that you’re losing Hinata-san at the expense of your career. Maybe that’s what you want. It’s time to ask yourself these hard questions.” Inside his stomach is twisting, but Asahi keeps a calm face. This isn’t the first time he’s had to ask his students to try to understand their partners, and prioritize them. It’s just the first time he’s had to say it to an almost-Olympic athlete. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see. Thank you, Azumane-san.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come by anytime if you want to talk more. I can always make time in my schedule,” says Asahi as Kageyama stands. “I want the best for both of you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama nods formally. “I appreciate it.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Word Games</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The day ends more happily than it began, with Asahi and Suga planning a lesson for Suga’s class in JSL. Suga is having Maria-chan’s mother come in to help out, and so she and Maria can demonstrate what a natural conversation between the two of them looks like. Asahi helps Suga with some simple materials for children and suggestions of the best signs to learn. “Teach them to spell their names,” he advises; “they’ll be interested in that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve never seen Maria-chan this excited,” says Suga wonderingly. “Usually she’s… well, quiet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe because for once people are teaching others about what she needs, instead of vice versa.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ouch Asahi,” says Suga softly. “Do you think she should be in special ed?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She will be when she’s older and the curriculum is harder – and she already has periods with a coach, right?” Asahi waits for Suga’s nod. “I think it’s important that she learn to interact with others while she’s young, and that the other children see her as someone normal, not locked away. But she needs her own supports as well. And the other children need to learn that they have a role to play in accommodating her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga sighs, hands hanging between his legs. “I feel very unequipped for this,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re here. You’re trying. That’s the best you can do,” replies Asahi. He’s reminded for the first time in a long time, though, how despite his constant easy-going manner and carefree advice, Suga hates failure. Hates it more than almost anything. “You’ve got the dedication to see it through; I know you will.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks Asahi.”</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>It’s only Wednesday, three nights since his last date with Nishinoya, and he’s already missing the libero. He cooks and eats dinner, cleans the dishes, starts watching some of a drama he’s fallen behind on. But his mind keeps bringing him back to the emptiness of his apartment, his bed. There’s a low-key current thrumming through him, a needling desire that he knows can be nearly instantly kindled into fiery hunger. He’s always had a healthy sex drive – nothing frantic or frenetic, but as his intimate moments with others have been few and far between he’s learned to take care of himself regularly. </span><p>
  <span>Tonight though as he lies in bed with the TV droning away in the background and tries to focus on a fantasy, he finds his mind full of Nishinoya. With Nishinoya’s coy smile and artful hands and swollen cock. With the memory of hot kisses on his skin, and slick fingers inside him, pressing him open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes an open-mouthed gasp as his hand slips into his underwear, hot and dry over his skin. He gives a few strokes to hold off his mounting hunger, then shoves down his pants and briefs and reaches over the edge of the bed to dig in the drawer below until he finds the lube. Now better equipped he gives himself over fully to pleasure, imagining that the slick hand on his cock isn’t his own but Nishinoya’s, that the thumb rubbing down his length is small and supple and exceedingly talented. He pictures Nishinoya’s mouth at his throat, his nipple, the base of his cock, fantasises about that wet tongue licking over his sensitive balls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aroused and aching now, Asahi turns onto his elbows and knees and slides his slick fingers over his entrance and inside, eyes closed in memory of Nishinoya’s short, thick cock plunging into him over and over, rutting up inside him. His fingers speed as memory merges with desire, his free hand coming around to take over stroking his cock while he fucks himself with his fingers. He pictures Nishinoya’s mouth on his shoulder, sucking a mark into his tanned skin, teeth nipping playfully as he pants, his cock filling Asahi’s ass. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He imagines coming, imagines Nishinoya’s hand gripping him tight and pumping against him, imagines Nishinoya fucking him through it, pounding into him even as Asahi shoots off, hungry and relentless and… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi groans as he spills into his hand. The haze of dirty thoughts clears almost immediately, leaving him cold and sweat-covered, his hand wet with cum. He wonders if he should feel dirty, should feel ashamed of jerking off to Nishinoya. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Nishinoya, he imagines, would love it. Would love knowing that Asahi is touching himself to images of him, is getting himself off on the memory of the libero. So he smiles instead of shuddering, and gets up to clean himself off. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Thursday brings a renewed anxiety about the evening group session. He hasn’t heard anything more from Kageyama, has no idea how his efforts are progressing. Yamaguchi at least is focused on his lesson; he’s clearly been working on his mouthing and is making progress as well as understandable mistakes. Asahi walks him through his corrections, focusing on rules that can be applied more broadly. </span><p>
  <i>
    <span>You’re really improving,</span>
  </i>
  <span> he signs, and sees Yamaguchi smile shyly. <i>How is practicing with Tsukishima-san?</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Tsukki is focused. He is better at GRAMMAR than vocab, but he can talk a lot! And he’s interesting. Last night we talked about carbon dating.</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi thinks that sounds dry as dirt, but doesn’t say as much. <i>I’m glad he’s supporting you, </i>he signs instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>We’re saving up to go to Europe. He wants to hear the orchestras there with me, before it’s too late. I tell him he can go alone, but he won’t. </span>
  </i>
  <span>Yamaguchi gives an awkward smile, his cheeks slightly red. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>He’s good to you, </span>
  </i>
  <span>Asahi signs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I’m glad you understand, </span>
  </i>
  <span>replies Yamaguchi. <i>Tsukki… he is very FRANK. Sometimes, very ABRASIVE. But he also cares, so much. </i>His smile becomes warmer, smoother. <i>I don’t mind that sometimes, only I see it. I know I can COUNT on him. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I’m glad, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Asahi.</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>He’s considering going out to buy coffee for Nishinoya – a small, pathetic return gift for last week’s flowers – when his door bursts open and Nishinoya gropes his way in. His face is pale and he’s wrapped up to his ears in his scarf above the fully zipped-up orange coat. <i>Asahi-san</i>, he signs dramatically, <i>I can’t kiss you</i>. </span><p>
  <span>Worried, Asahi’s already gotten to his feet. <i>What’s wrong?</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I’m SICK! </span>
  </i>
  <span>Signs Nishinoya dramatically, coming in and flopping down into the chair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi smiles, relieved and amused, and takes a seat. <i>So it’s not your respect for my boundaries? </i>he asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>What?</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>You shouldn’t kiss me during lessons anyway, </span>
  </i>
  <span>he replies. Nishinoya sticks out his tongue. <i>What’s wrong with you? </i>he asks gently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>SORE THROAT. SWALLOWING AGONY. Tried VITAMIN C – it does nothing. I may die! </span>
  </i>
  <span>He looks up, wide-eyed and pathetic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>You’re not going to die. You’ve got a cold. Just drink a lot and keep warm.</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Can’t drink. HURTS too much. Will die of THIRST, </span>
  </i>
  <span>replies Nishinoya. <i>No REGRETS though – last MEMORY will be of you. So big, so kind, so good in bed,</i> he signs slyly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi sighs, but is unable to fight back his smile. <i>First, nice try to get around the rules. Second, just heat your drink or add lemon. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Will you make me tea?</span>
  </i>
  <span> Begs Nishinoya. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I will make you tea. Tell me about your day, </span>
  </i>
  <span>he signs as he reaches over and switches on the kettle. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Nishinoya’s ramblings about his day – so awful, so sick, Ryuu selfishly refusing to sub for him – slowly transition to wondering about the future of Hinata and Kageyama’s relationship. In talking about it he’s merely putting words to the questions Asahi himself has been wondering about since Wednesday, but Asahi still feels tense and guilty discussing it. </span><p>
  <i>
    <span>I don’t know if they’ll be here tonight, </span>
  </i>
  <span>he signs, not at all sure whether it would be better if they came or skipped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya considers. <i>I think Shouyou will come. He is so COMMITTED. Kageyama… </i>he tilts his head to the side. <i>Not sure. I want him to. I want them to be okay.</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi sighs. <i>I want them to find the right solution for themselves. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>What did Kageyama say with you?</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I can’t tell you, </span>
  </i>
  <span>replies Asahi. <i>But I don’t think he knows what he wants. Or what he wants isn’t realistic (REALISTIC). It seems like maybe their relationship (RELATIONSHIP) has been easy until now. Maybe they never had the hard conversations (CONVERSATIONS). Now is the time to have them.</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Do we have hard conversations? </span>
  </i>
  <span>Asks Nishinoya. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I’m sure we will. But right now all I want to know is if you want more tea. </span>
  </i>
  <span>He smiles and, when Nishinoya nods enthusiastically, leans over to switch the kettle on again.</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>They determine that if Nishinoya’s feeling well enough he’ll come to the game on Saturday, probably not to play this time. After guzzling three cups of tea Asahi has to show him to the bathroom on the way out. He pauses before they separate, feeling the need for some kind of closeness despite the libero’s germs. He pulls Nishinoya into a careful embrace and nuzzles his spiked hair, presses a kiss to the crown of his head. </span><p>
  <i>
    <span>Take care. I’ll see you tonight, </span>
  </i>
  <span>he signs when they pull apart. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Aww, Asahi-san, so SWEET. </span>
  </i>
  <span>Nishinoya grins and disappears into the bathroom. Asahi goes back to his office to prepare for his next meeting. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>After last session’s descent into disaster, Asahi doesn’t feel like taking a chance with another group conversation, at least not for the full hour. Instead he decides on playing tail-chasing, as well as having the group do a round of celebrity intros, JSL style. It should, with any luck, limit border-pushing conversations. </span><p>
  <span>To his surprise, when he gets down to the basement to set up, Hinata is already there. He’s standing on his own leaning against the door to the meeting room, looking down at his phone. He glances up when he catches sight of Asahi approaching and his face splits into a smile. <i>Azumane-san!</i> </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Hinata-san. You’re early. </span>
  </i>
  <span>He stops and puts down the space heater, straightening and looking down at the short red-head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Yeah. I wanted to say sorry. I behaved like an ass on Tuesday. </span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>No, no. It was a difficult conversation. I should have anticipated that talking about work might provoke uncomfortable feelings. No one thinks the less of you. </span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hinata shakes his head. <i>We should definitely be able to talk about our jobs without freaking out. I guess… the stuff with Kageyama’s just been on my mind a lot lately. He works so hard at volleyball, and I get that. I would if I could too! But it’s hard when after high school and university and now with his career he still can’t find the time for me. And now we’re not really talking at all… </i>Hinata takes a breath. <i>Sorry. You don’t need to know that. You’re not… I dunno, our counsellor. I just wanted to say: sorry. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>If there’s anything I can do to help support you, I would be happy to Hinata-san. Please just let me know. </span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Thanks!</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi opens the door and lets Hinata in, setting up the space heater and then coming back to chat with him about possible resources to support Yamaguchi’s transition into the deaf community. With Hinata in the community and Asahi as a support to it, they have different lenses into the same situation. As they chat the rest of the group accumulates, taking their chairs. Kageyama is one of the last to come in; he glances at Hinata with an expressionless face, then takes a seat. Asahi is conscious of a sudden stiffness in the room, people deliberately avoiding looking at either Hinata or Kageyama.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Good evening everyone, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Asahi as he takes his own seat. <i>Thanks for coming. Tonight I’d like us to play a few word games to help us practice our vocabulary. The first is tail-chasing. Does everyone understand the rules?</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are nods from around the room. Asahi smiles. <i>Good. I’ll start: Toast. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Tomato, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Suga.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Olive, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Hinata. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Everyone, </span>
  </i>
  <span>contributes Nishinoya. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Elbow, </span>
  </i>
  <span>from Yamaguchi. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi nods, and they continue on. Wedlock, knight, tomorrow, Wednesday, yesterday, yellow, and so on. Until Tanaka gets <i>self</i> and chooses, unsurprisingly, <i>fuck</i>. Which leads to <i>kinks, sexual, love bite, erogenous, suck</i>, and so on. Asahi sighs but lets it happen; at least they’re having fun with it. A couple of times they hit the end and have to restart, but it inevitably spirals. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a light activity, and it’s nice to feel the group relaxing and finding its earlier comfortable rhythm. The stiffness disperses and even Kageyama and Tsukishima are participating; Hinata nearly falls out of his chair laughing when Tsukishima contributes <i>face fucking</i> with a bland expression. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi lets it continue for another ten minutes, then brings it to a close. <i>That’s great. Good work everyone. I’m sure your bedroom conversations will be improved. </i>He smiles. <i>Next I would like to do celebrity introductions. I want you to pick a person – they can be real or fictional – and prepare a speech on their behalf introducing them. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are a few moments of silence while they all digest the request. Then Nishinoya sticks his hand up. <i>Me first!</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi nods to him and he stands. Nishinoya grins, shifts his weight onto one hip, and raises his hands sassily. <i>Oikawa Tooru, 26. I’m here to MESS you up. Like my smile? You’ll love kissing my ass. I’ll make you work for it, then leave you HANGING. I serve it up hot, BITCHES. You won’t ever see me cry. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He raises his eyebrows hilariously and looks at Hinata.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Yeah, pretty true, </span>
  </i>
  <span>agrees the red-head. <i>That’s, like, Oikawa-san’s inside voice. Outside he’s real nice. Well. Kinda nice, </i>he corrects. <i>But you can totally see him thinking that stuff. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Oikawa is a PIECE of SHIT, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Kageyama. Hinata glances at him, and Asahi actually feels the tension solidify in the room. He takes a breath, ready to intercede, but before anything else can happen Suga raises his hand. His teacher’s instincts to quash conflict are keen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Me next. </span>
  </i>
  <span>He stands and momentarily puts his hands on his hips, glaring around the room, before starting to sign. <i>Ushijima Wakatoshi, 26. Who are you? I see you, but you mean nothing to me. You are small. You are weak. You are INSIGNIFICANT. I CRUSH everyone who CHALLENGES me. I will CRUSH you. It is not a question of if. It is a question of when. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Spookily right, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Hinata, grinning.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Oh, me! </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Tanaka, and stands. <i>HEY HEY HEY! Bokutou Koutarou, 26. You wanna PARTY? I’m your PARTY boy! I stay out late, I get the CHICKS. Sometimes, I even get the DICKS. If you’re not down, don’t bother waiting around. I won’t be back til the sun comes up. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>It’s like you’ve met them. </span>
  </i>
  <span>Hinata shakes his head in awe. <i>Do Kageyama!</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The stiffness in the room snaps back. Asahi raises his hand. <i>Sorry, Hinata-san. But I would rather we stick to people who aren’t present. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hinata droops slightly; Kageyama lets out a breath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I’ll go next, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Daichi, and they move on.</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>For the first time, Hinata goes last. The clock is ticking away towards seven, the hour quickly consumed with impressions. </span><p>
  <span>Hinata stands slowly, mouth twisted in a kind of wry smile. <i>Who am I? Hinata Shouyou, 24. I’m not tall or strong or famous. I’m not on TV or in magazines, on the radio or the news. I’m an ordinary guy who has an extraordinary boyfriend. When he’s on the court, I’ll always cheer him on. But when we’re alone, I want us to be equals. </i>He looks to Kageyama, <i>That’s up to him. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama swallows. <i>Shouyou… </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Tell me when you’re ready, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Hinata, and hops up out of his chair. <i>Sorry Azumane-san, I got too personal. I gotta go – I’m taking a late shift. </i>He picks up his coat, waves at the group, and heads out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kageyama, you’d better not fuck this up,” says Tsukishima quietly, to the entire group’s surprise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama glares at him. “No one asked you to interfere.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well apparently you need things spelled out in big bold letters before you understand them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maa, maa.” Asahi stands, hands raised. “This is Kageyama-san and Hinata-san’s business. Let’s not get involved.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kageyama stands. “Thanks for the session,” he says awkwardly to Asahi, then walks out. They stare after him in silence. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Asahi gets several texts from Nishinoya that night complaining about his sore throat and his perceived ills and chills. But between them are musings about Hinata and Kageyama that continue late, wondering if they’ll be able to patch it together. Asahi falls asleep wondering the same thing.</span><p>
  <span>He wakes up to an email from Kageyama telling him he’ll be missing today’s 1:1, that he has something to discuss with his coach. Asahi’s not sure whether to take it as a good sign or not; he’s never been a very optimistic person. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That afternoon he’s working through some emails with other instructors at the centre when his phone buzzes. He looks down and sees he’s received an urgent text from Nishinoya. Worried – is he feeling worse? – Asahi checks it immediately. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Chk out ths vid now! </span>
  </i>
  <span>There’s a link to a youtube video. Hoping it’s not something NSFW, Asahi opens the link. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it’s of a volleyball court. But instead of a game in process players are filing by the camera. The Schweiden Alders. As Kageyama comes onto screen the sports reporter calls him aside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kageyama-senshu, we understand you have something you want to share?” says the commentator. “Is this a new announcement?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It shouldn’t be, but I guess it might be,” replies the setter enigmatically. And then he raises his hands and signs: <i>Shouyou, I love you. I’m sorry; I’ll try harder. </i>His movements are careful and fluid; clearly he’s practiced them hard. “That’s all,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But Kageyama-senshu, what was that? What did you say? Our viewers won’t understand!” The commentator sounds fretful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The only person who needs to understand it will,” replies Kageyama, and walks off the court. The youtube clip ends, bringing up a black screen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Wow, </span>
  </i>
  <span>texts Asahi back to Nishinoya. And then, slowly, <i>Maybe they will be okay after all. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Told you so, </span>
  </i>
  <span>replies Nishinoya.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Shiritori (tail-chasing) is a Japanese word game where each word spoken starts with the last syllable of the previous word. You lose if you say a word that ends with N (the only syllable in Japanese that doesn't end in a vowel). </p>
<p>-senshu is the suffix used for sports players.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Emergency Contact</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Lucky 13...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Nishinoya falls off texting on Friday afternoon, and Asahi doesn’t hear from him again before the game on Saturday. He takes this to mean that the libero is feeling better now that he’s no longer relentlessly seeking pity. Asahi changes into his t-shirt and shorts, pulling on his track suit and coat over them, and packs his bag – water, shoes, towel. Ties his hair back and puts on his street shoes: ready. Although he saw Nishinoya on Thursday somehow it feels less satisfying when it’s at the Centre and he’s bound by the real or imagined restraints on his behaviour. Even if Nishinoya’s nursing a cold he wants to spend time with him, has already in such a short time come to crave his company.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He arrives at the gym early, only Kindaichi and Matsukawa there already. They chat idly while waiting for the badminton club to clear off and take down their net, then start setting up. Kinoshita and Kozume trickle in while they’re winching up the net, and Aone and Terushima arrive as they’re starting to warm up. It’s only then, when Asahi’s checking his phone to see if Nishinoya’s sent regrets, that he sees the libero’s small frame ghost in through the gym door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya looks terrible. His face is grey, his sharp-edged eyes glossy. His hair isn’t spiked up, and its softer appearance makes him look even more fragile. Even as he crosses the court, muffled to his ears in his scarf, Asahi can hear the labour of his breathing. He stops about a meter away from Asahi and waves. <i>Hey, </i>he signs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yuu, you should be in bed,” says Asahi, shocked. “You look terrible.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Thanks</span>
  </i>
  <span>, replies Nishinoya, and although his mouth is hidden by his scarf Asahi can sense the dry grin. He cracks his knuckles. <i>My APARTMENT is so boring. Had to get out. Couldn’t breathe in there. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi watches him, worried. It’s clear he’s not breathing well here, either. There’s an ugly wet sound to his breaths, and when he coughs it doesn’t seem to do anything to clear it. “Maybe you should see a doctor,” Asahi starts slowly, hesitantly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>I’m okay. Just need some STIMULATION. </span>
  </i>
  <span>His shoulders tremble and he digs a handkerchief out of his pocket, stuffing it under the scarf and against his stoma as he coughs into it. He doesn’t sound any better for it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You definitely can’t play,” declares Asahi firmly. Nishinoya shakes his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>No. Just watch. I can ref too. </span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you need a chair? I can get one from –”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Asahi-san, </span>
  </i>
  <span>cuts in Nishinoya. <i>I’m okay. Really. Go warm up. </i>He shoos him forward as if urging a nervous child onto the playground. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eyes still on Nishinoya, Asahi joins the rest of the team and starts stretching. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    <span></span></p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>With seven players today they rotate on and off the court. Nishinoya referees, buzzer in hand, shoulders hunched against the cold of the gym. Their opponents are decent, putting up a fight, and soon Asahi finds himself fully drawn into the game. Kozume’s on top of his game even without Kuroo present, and both Asahi and Terushima are driving hard spikes past their opponent’s blocks. </span><p>
  <span>The points mount up in the first set, Asahi warm now and sweating freely in the cold air, lunging and even diving easily for balls that might otherwise have been missed. He hopes Nishinoya appreciates that he’s trying to be more defensive, is attempting to dredge up old lessons from high school on receiving. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But when he glances at Nishinoya, the libero’s eyes are on the net, his hands tucked in his pocket. He’s standing very still except for the shuddering breaths that even from the court Asahi can see him drawing in. Occasionally he coughs, a soft, airy sound, his hand tucking in under his scarf to collect the phlegm. He catches Asahi staring once and points back to the server lining up on the opposite side in irritation. Asahi turns back to the game.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They win the first set by three points, Aone currently off the court and score-keeping. Asahi wonders if Nishinoya will give them any guidance or coaching, but he seems to be busy watching the opposite team and Asahi doesn’t want to disturb him. He chats with Kinoshita and Kindaichi about last week’s pro matches instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The second set starts with Asahi serving; he’s got a strong jump serve, although it’s rarely good enough to earn an ace. Sure enough this time as per usual the opposing team receives it and play starts up, Asahi jogging onto the court to take his place on the backline. They score twice before failing to make a block and missing the dig; on the side of the court the buzzer fails to go off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi looks over, puzzled, just as someone shouts something. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the sideline, Nishinoya is staggering dizzily to one side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although he’s on the far side of the court, Asahi reaches him at nearly the same time as Kozume, much closer in the front left position. He catches Nishinoya’s shoulders, steadying him. “Yuu!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya blinks wearily and looks up. <i>Can’t breathe right, </i>he signs. His pale face is covered with a sheen of sweat, the wet sounds of his breathing close to gasping. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m taking you to the hospital,” says Asahi, heart clogged with fear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An instant later he sees it reflected in Nishinoya’s eyes. <i>No!</i> the libero signs, straightening and coughing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You need to see a doctor right away. You’re not clearing your lungs properly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>No hospital</span>
  </i>
  <span>, signs Nishinoya firmly, glassy eyes intense. Asahi swallows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A clinic, then. There’s one a couple of blocks away – we can go now. I’m not going to back down, Yuu,” he says firmly. Nishinoya looks up at him and then nods slowly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Okay. Fine, </span>
  </i>
  <span>he signs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kozume-san, can you watch him while I get my stuff?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kozume nods, stepping closer to Nishinoya, and Asahi hurries to the side of the gym to pull on his track suit and coat, changing his shoes quickly. They’re lucky they have a spare player today – the match can go on without him. The rest of the team is standing by watching; Asahi gives them a vague wave as he hurries back across the court to Nishinoya. “Okay, let’s go. Thanks Kozume-san.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Be well,” says the setter quietly. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    <span></span></p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>They take the walk to the clinic slow. Nishinoya’s hanging on Asahi’s arm and for once Asahi’s not nervous about the judgement of his peers – he’s worried about how grey Nishinoya looks. He puts the back of his hand to the libero’s forehead and finds it warm and damp; a slight fever. </span><p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t have come today. You should have gone right to the doctor,” frets Asahi. “Why are you so stubborn now – you were complaining about a sore throat like it was the end of the world on Thursday.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Asahi-san, chill, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Nishinoya. <i>It’s just a cold. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Colds kill!” exclaims Asahi, and then feels faint. “Shit, Yuu, forget I said that – you’re going to be fine. You <i>are </i>fine. It’s…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Fine? </span>
  </i>
  <span>Signs Nishinoya wryly. <i>I’m SUPPOSED to be the one who can’t breathe, Asahi-san. Chill!</i></span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    <span></span></p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>The clinic is a small run-down building on the corner providing quick access for minor injuries and ailments. There’s a young woman acting as receptionist and a few chairs in the waiting room. She looks up as Asahi opens the door for Nishinoya and comes with him to the counter. </span><p>
  <span>“What’s your name, please?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is Nishinoya Yuu,” says Asahi; Nishinoya waves. “He has a stoma and is having trouble breathing. His lungs are congested.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A stoma?” asks the receptionist; Asahi feels his heart sink. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He breathes through his throat,” he explains stiffly, trying to push down his frustration at her ignorance. Nishinoya raises his scarf and displays it; her eyes widen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. I see.” She checks something on her computer. “The doctor can see you in about ten minutes. Please take a seat.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you.” They sit, Nishinoya’s breaths coming harsh and gasping through the scarf. “Is this your first time with a cold? Since the operation, I mean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya nods. He pulls out his phone and starts typing. “After the op my lungs were really congested for more than a month. I had this sucker thing to suction all the phlegm out with. Super gross, but kind of cool, too. But I returned it after my lungs cleared.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You must have a regular doctor. Why didn’t you go to see them?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya fiddles with his phone. “I told you: I’m fine. Just a little breathless.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You almost fainted on the court.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah. Just a little dizzy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yuu…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A door opens down the hall and a middle-aged woman comes out. “Nishinoya Yuu?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They both look up. Nishinoya stands, then looks back when Asahi remains seated. <i>Come on, </i>he signs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You want me to come?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya raises his eyebrows and nods as though it were obvious. Asahi gets up and follows him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Inside the small clinic room is a paper-sheeted bed, two chairs, a cabinet, and a desk with computer. The walls are covered with PSA posters, the paint job beneath old and scarred. The doctor sits in the chair in front of the computer; Asahi sits in the corner while Nishinoya boosts himself up to sit on the bed, its white paper wrapping crinkling under him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m Ishii,” she says blandly, opening up a new record on her computer. “Nishinoya-san, I understand you’re experiencing difficulty breathing, and that you have a stoma. Can you provide a little background, please?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya waves to Asahi, who straightens. “Um – he had laryngeal cancer, and a laryngectomy six months ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods and gives him an inquiring look. “And you are?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi feels his gut twist sharply, a burst of adrenaline shooting through his system like ice water. Feels the weight of her judgement descend on him like a ton of bricks. “Azumane Asahi. His – his friend,” stutters Asahi, red-faced and unable to look Nishinoya in the eye. But really, wouldn’t it be presumptuous of him to assume he’s something to Nishinoya? They’ve only been going out for a little more than two weeks.  “I’m also his instructor in JSL,” he adds, trying to further normalize the situation and calm the hideous unrest in his stomach. His heart is thrumming in his chest, his palms sweaty. He still doesn’t dare look at Nishinoya. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Coward, </span>
  </i>
  <span>says a small voice in the back of his mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see. Nishinoya-san, how long have you had trouble breathing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya types quickly: “Since yesterday evening.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi swallows. He had assumed Nishinoya had stopped complaining because he was getting better. In fact, it was because he was getting worse. His hands tighten on the chair’s narrow plastic armrests. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you receiving any ongoing medical therapy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you feeling ill otherwise?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. Sore throat, fever,” types Nishinoya shortly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The doctor nods. Standing, she produces a thermometer with a plastic tip and puts it in Nishinoya’s mouth. While it’s reading she opens a drawer and pulls out her stethoscope. “Please take off your coat and lift your shirt,” she says. He struggles out of his coat, his thin chest heaving, and untucks his t-shirt from his jeans, pulling it up. She slips the stethoscope under his shirt and presses it to his chest. “Breathe in… and out. In… and out. Good. Now the back.” She reaches round him and runs the instrument up under his shirt from behind, repeating her instructions. Just as she’s finishing the thermometer beeps and she withdraws it. “38 – low grade fever. Your lungs are quite obstructed; you aren’t clearing them sufficiently.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya nods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Given your vulnerable condition and your current inability to clear your lungs, I’m going to send you to hospital. You need monitoring until the cold improves.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>No</span>
  </i>
  <span>, signs Nishinoya fiercely. <i>No hospital. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course you’re going to the hospital,” replies Asahi, trying for stern and only managing pleading. Nishinoya looks at him and shakes his head firmly. “Yuu, you can’t <i>breathe</i>,” he says plaintively. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>They can give me SUCTION thing. I’ll be fine. </span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s used a suction device at home before. Could they issue him one now?” asks Asahi for him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If his condition improves, yes. But right now he needs monitoring by a health professional.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya looks at him, eyes wide. Scared, Asahi realises for the first time. He wants to reach out to him, wants to offer the comfort of his touch, his presence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His own pathetic fears hold him back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’ll be okay,” says Asahi softly. “You’ll be fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>You don’t understand, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Nishinoya. He’s no longer fierce, he’s disturbingly still, his mouth an unreadable thin line. <i>I don’t want to go back. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sensing hesitancy, the doctor continues, “Nishinoya-san, if you don’t go to the hospital you could experience a block in your stoma and become unable to breathe. If that happens, you could develop brain damage. You could die. You need to submit to medical care.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Asahi-san, please</span>
  </i>
  <span>, he signs, but then falters. Can’t find the words to ask for what he wants. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll go with you,” says Asahi, leaning forward with all the reassurance he can offer. “You’ll be okay.” </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    <span></span></p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>The doctor provides them with a printed referral and sends them to the admission clinic at the local ward hospital, two stops away on the bus. Nishinoya is silent the entire ride there – no signing, no texting. He sits while Asahi stands beside him, staring out the window. </span><p>
  <span>He only starts to sign once, when the large bulk of the hospital comes within view. <i>Asahi-san… </i>he doesn’t finish his sentence. The bus’s automated system announces the stop and they get off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They enter together, Nishinoya stopping and looking around. <i>Never wanted to come back, </i>he signs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s just for a short time,” says Asahi. “Until you’re healthy again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya looks up at him with dark eyes; with his mouth covered Asahi can’t read his expression. <i>I HATE it here.</i> He turns and follows the signs to the admission clinic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s its own space separated from the main hallways of the hospital by a pair of sliding doors. Inside is a receptionist seated at a desk with two free chairs opposite; Nishinoya hands him his paperwork and he motions for Nishinoya to sit down while he starts entering information in his computer. They go through the usual details, Nishinoya’s Employee’s Health Insurance card, his personal information. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Emergency contact?” the receptionist asks, glancing at Nishinoya. The libero looks up at Asahi.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, maybe you’d better make it Tanaka-san,” says Asahi quietly, very conscious of the receptionist’s eyes on him. He feels a cold slimy feeling inside, a disgusting mixture of guilt and self-loathing. “I mean, he knows you so well, and I… he might be better,” he mutters, shuffling his feet against the linoleum floor. He remembers Tanaka’s speech to him almost word for word, remembers him demanding if Asahi would be there when he was needed. Remembers committing himself. But at the time he had been thinking of the distant future, of a point at which his relationship with Nishinoya was solid, beyond doubt. And, hopefully, a time when he was more confident with his own identity. To be confronted with it now, so soon… he can feel himself panicking. Feel every imagined judgement, every foreseen shaming, heaping up onto him until he can’t think, can’t breathe.   </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Is that really what you feel, Asahi-san? </span>
  </i>
  <span>Asks Nishinoya. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi looks at him awash with guilt. “I…” he swallows. <i>I’m not brave like you, Yuu, </i>he signs. <i>I’m not ready to be your boyfriend – not to people who don’t know us. </i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>So be my friend,</span>
  </i>
  <span> Nishinoya. <i>That’s enough. </i>But Asahi can’t help but think that his eyes look saddened, disappointed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can put me down,” he says to the man at the desk, throat tight. “Azumane Asahi.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Relationship?” asks the receptionist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Friend,” replies Asahi, without looking at Nishinoya. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. No Fear</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Nishinoya’s taken through to an exam room – “Family only,” says the nurse who guides him in, and Asahi hangs back awkwardly, feeling worse and worse. He wonders if he should call Tanaka – better someone who can commit fully than his half-assed support. He sits in an uncomfortable chair staring dejectedly at his phone before eventually deciding to hold off. Nishinoya asked for him; he needs to make the effort to be the man Nishinoya wants him to be. Even if right now all he feels like is a failure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi waits for nearly half an hour before Nishinoya emerges in hospital dress – a green cotton shirt and pants like a kind of sanitized jinbei – his belongings in a large plastic bag. The pale green seems to sap the colour from his skin, his eyes huge and his chapped lips drawn in an uncertain line. He looks frail, vulnerable, and Asahi feels his heart twist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a nurse with him; she looks at Asahi. “You’re with Nishinoya-san?” he nods. “The admission exam is finished; I’m taking him upstairs to the ward.” </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Okay?</span>
  </i>
  <span> Signs Asahi when she turns, wanting to give Nishinoya the privacy of their silent conversation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya’s hands flutter once, indecisive. Then, <i>Not really, </i>he replies, mouth twisted awkwardly. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Can I do anything? </span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Stay, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Nishinoya, firmly. Asahi nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Together they go up to the inpatient ward on the third floor, a long hallway with doors labelled with the names of their patients. One’s already been prepared for Nishinoya, a double room with another patient labelled Ouno. Ouno turns out to be a heavy-set man in his fifties with greying hair, narrow eyes and a red, corpulent face. He’s installed in the bed nearer the window, a blue cloth curtain tied back out of the way between the two beds. He eyes Nishinoya mistrustfully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ouno-san, you’ll welcome Nishinoya-san, won’t you?” chides the nurse cheerfully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, welcome,” he grunts, shifting in his bed and failing to smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya waves and boosts himself up onto the side of the nearer bed. A fit of coughs hits him and he doubles over, his breaths gasping and wheezy; the nurse hurriedly provides a tissue for him. He flops back into the bed when it’s done, exhausted and bedraggled.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The unit nurse will be in shortly to set up the suction, Nishinoya-san. You’ll be more comfortable after that,” says the admitting nurse. Nishinoya lies on his side breathing wetly, his face tight with exertion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” says Asahi, and she leaves. Asahi settles himself in the chair beside Nishinoya’s bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what’re you in for, shrimp?” asks Ouno roughly, his tone condescending.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya looks to Asahi, who answers. “Trouble breathing,” he says, not sure how much Nishinoya would want him to share. “And yourself?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Waiting on gall bladder surgery. The little piece of shit’s a misery to me. Can’t eat; can’t sleep. It’s not happy unless I’m writhing in agony.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds difficult,” says Asahi politely. He turns away, hoping to convey that the conversation is over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And who’re you, beardie?” asks Ouno, peering at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Azumane Asahi. Nishinoya-san’s friend.” He’s only just met Ouno, but Asahi is already very certain that he would not be comfortable coming out to him. </span><br/>
<span>“A girlfriend with nice tits would’ve been better,” Ouno grumbles and turns away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi gives a small relieved sigh. <i>Sorry, </i>he signs to Nishinoya. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>He’ll be a FUN ROOMMATE, </span>
  </i>
  <span>replies the libero dryly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With his back screening him, Asahi reaches out and takes Nishinoya’s hand. The libero’s fingers are cold, his skin dry. Asahi tightens his grip, and Nishinoya squeezes back. For a moment everything feels alright again, the seething anxiety in his gut calms and his airway loosens. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then a nurse is coming in, and Asahi snatches his hand back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles at Nishinoya as she comes over, carrying a jug of water and a cup which she puts down on the small table beside his bed opposite Asahi. She’s a young cheerful-looking woman with long hair done up in a bun. “Good afternoon, Nishinoya-san. My name is Matsudaira Harumi. I’m here to set up the suction for you. I’ll also be coming in to check on you, and bringing you anything you need. Okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya nods and she starts setting up a small suction head linked by a tube to the wall above the bed. It looks vaguely like the suction heads Asahi’s used to at the dentist. “Have you used this before?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great. It’s very simple – press the button and hold to operate the suction. Just release it when you’re done. You can keep it on this little hook. Make sure not to insert it more than two centimeters into the stoma. It’s important you keep clearing your lungs primarily through coughing; you can damage them by inserting anything too deeply. If you need help, just ring the call button,” she indicates a blue button above his head. “I also recommend that you keep your bed elevated; that can help with keeping your lungs clear.” She presses a button and the head slowly rises until Nishinoya’s raised into a near-seating height. “Any questions?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head. She smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t you going to check on me, Harumi-chan?” calls Ouno. Asahi, who’s watching her, sees her eyes tighten although her smile remains bright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maa, Ouno-san, I was in just an hour ago. Let me spend some time with Nishinoya-san.”</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I’m fine, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Nishinoya.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He says he’s okay,” translates Asahi. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you his translator?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something like that. He can speak through his phone as well if I’m not here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods and looks back to Nishinoya. “Would you like to make sure the suction is working?” she asks; Asahi suspects she’s also asking to make sure he knows how to use it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya glances at Asahi. <i>It’s GROSS, </i>he signs apologetically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t mind.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The suction device emits a small noise, more than Nishinoya does when he coughs; it’s the airy sound of a small vacuum. He uses the head just inside his stoma, sucking away phlegm until his breathing is clearer. He returns the device to its wall bracket and uses a tissue to clean around the edge of the hole. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matsudaira smiles. “You should try to get some rest, Nishinoya-san. You’ve still got a fever, and your tests showed you were dehydrated. Please remember to drink plenty of water. The bathroom is right there if you need it,” she adds, gesturing to a closed door beside the entrance to the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He manages a thin smile, just a shadow of his usual enthusiasm, and gives a thumbs up. The nurse waves and steps out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she’s gone he lets his head thud back against the mattress, eyes closed. His face is drawn, shadows under his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to sleep?” asks Asahi quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya’s eyes flicker open and he shakes his head. <i>DISTRACT me, </i>he signs. But Asahi can tell he’s fuzzy, not up to real conversation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I can get onto the hospital wifi, we could watch a game?” he suggests, taking out his phone. Nishinoya nods and Asahi connects and starts browsing through youtube. He pulls up the first half of a game and sets it to play, audio low, resting it on Nishinoya’s stomach and tilting his head to watch. The video has just started when Ouno starts shifting and sighing on the other side of the room. Asahi ignores him, until finally he speaks up:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, some quiet here! This is a hospital, not a sports bar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya’s eyebrows twitch irritatedly. Asahi stops the video and digs out his earbuds. “Sorry,” he says, and plugs them in. He leans in closer to Nishinoya and they share the earbuds, one ear each. He gives Nishinoya a small smile; Nishinoya smiles back and puts his hand over Asahi’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The game continues.</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Nishinoya falls asleep before the game finishes, dozing off with his head lolling to the side, mouth hanging slightly open. Asahi quietly removes the earbud and stops the stream. He does some emails on his phone and reads a few articles. Nishinoya fails to wake up, so Asahi gets up quietly and goes out to stretch his legs. He walks down the long hallway, then decides to pick up some food, following the signs down to the cafeteria. </span><p>
  <span>When he returns Nishinoya is tossing fretfully in his sleep, his expression distressed. His breathing has grown harsh and wet again, his forehead shiny with sweat and his hair damp with it. As Asahi watches a tear leaks out of the corner of his eye, running down his cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the other bed Ouno is lying back, watching dispassionately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi hurries over, back to the other patient, and puts a hand on Nishinoya’s arm. “Nishinoya? Yuu?” he calls softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya startles into wakefulness, mouth opening as he gasps suddenly – an instinctive response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re okay, it’s okay Yuu.” Asahi holds his hand as Nishinoya looks up at him. For an instant his eyes are wide and terrified, then the fear diminishes. He blinks, then reaches up and rubs at his damp eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>CRYING in sleep, </span>
  </i>
  <span>he signs. <i>How LAME. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not. It was just a dream.” Asahi sits down. Nishinoya rubs his face with his hands, skin pinkening. He coughs, then reaches up and clears the stoma with the suction before settling. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I’m okay. </span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Are you? </span>
  </i>
  <span>replies Asahi, conscious of Ouno’s listening ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya takes a slow breath. <i>It’s… hard, </i>he signs slowly. <i>Being here. Being back. Old MEMORIES. Old fears. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>You’re okay now.</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I know, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Nishinoya abruptly, angrily. <i>I know it’s stupid. I know nothing to fear. But still fear.</i> He shakes his hands sharply, as if sloughing off dirty water. As if trying to shake off his words. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I’m sorry, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Asahi. <i>That was a dumb thing for me to say. I know you’re afraid. There’s nothing wrong with that. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya swallows. <i>Last time, it was bad, Asahi-san. </i>His amber eyes are still glassy with fever but Asahi can read the depth of the anguish in them. It steals his breath away. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Do you want to talk about it?</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head. <i>I want to FORGET. So much. But even asleep I can’t FORGET. </i>He rubs his eyes again. <i>Everything here REMINDS me. COLOURS, SMELL, SOUND… </i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Can I do anything?</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Help me FORGET, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Nishinoya. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Well, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Asahi slowly. <i>We could check Hinata’s INSTA feed… </i>He’s loath to encourage gossiping,  but right now all he wants to do is get rid of the pall of fear hanging over Nishinoya. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The libero nods, and Asahi digs out his phone and pulls up Instagram, handing it over to Nishinoya who logs in and checks Hinata’s feed. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>New POST!</span>
  </i>
  <span> After a moment his face widens into a bright smile. He turns the phone to face Asahi; the latest picture is a selfie of Hinata hugging Kageyama, his grin electric. Even Kageyama, usually sombre, is smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I guess Kageyama’s words got to him, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Nishinoya. <i>I’ll text him!</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Use your phone! </span>
  </i>
  <span>Replies Asahi, suddenly dreading what message Nishinoya might send from his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The libero gives him a fond, amused look. <i>Geez Asahi-san, no need to get scared. I’ll only ever SEXT you. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi takes his phone back hurriedly, but truthfully he’s just glad Nishinoya’s found something to occupy his attention, however briefly. He watches while Nishinoya composes a message on his own phone, mouth hooked up crookedly in concentration and eyes narrow. He looks like a child playing a videogame; the whole of his attention on the screen. When he’s done he holds it up for Asahi to read. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Drink some water,” suggests Asahi, taking the phone. Nishinoya rolls his eyes but reaches over to pour some into a cup, raising it to his lips and sipping at it while Asahi reads. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Shouyou, my man! Saw K’s message on youtube – I hope he’s putting his words into action! That idiot better be loving you like crazy. If he’s not, just tell me and Ryuu and we’ll teach him the error of his ways. But judging from your Gram, he’s making up for his lack of attention. Hope he’s using his mouth where it counts (</span>
  </i>
  <i>
    <span>・</span>
  </i>
  <i>
    <span>ω&lt;).</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Very… you, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Asahi, smiling. Nishinoya sticks out his tongue, putting down the cup and taking back his phone, and presses send. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Okay… now Kageyama’s GRAM…</span>
  </i>
  <span> signs Nishinoya, opening the app. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>You want to see pics of Kageyama’s thighs (THIGHS)? </span>
  </i>
  <span>Asks Asahi.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I’d rather see pictures of your thighs, </span>
  </i>
  <span>replies Nishinoya, grinning now. <i>You should get a GRAM. Oh! I could start one for you! Yes!</i> He’s already logging out of his account and clicking to start a new one.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Yuu…</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Nope, we’re doing it. Putting in your email… Name? ASAMOMO! BIRTHDAY? </span>
  </i>
  <span>He looks at Asahi.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi sighs with resignation. <i>January 1. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>No, your REAL BIRTHDAY, Asahi-san!</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi smiles awkwardly. <i>That’s it. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Wow, cool! Okay, January 1<sup>st</sup>. Picture… </span>
  </i>
  <span>He thumbs out of that screen and points his phone at Asahi, who smiles awkwardly. The camera snaps. <i>GOLD. </i>He sits back and thumbs through a few screens, adding filters and cleaning up the photo, before setting the account live. He immediately follows himself, Tanaka, Hinata and Kageyama. <i>First pic? Has to be them THIGHS. Stand up, Asahi-san!</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya looks so excited that Asahi can’t help but comply; he stands and Nishinoya takes his picture. <i>Oh yeah. Now: who else to FOLLOW? What do you like, Asahi-san? CATS? MEMES? THIGHS? </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi sits down and settles in for the long haul. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Actually though, dinner comes not so long after, Nishinoya picking at it without eating much. He’s coughing more, stopping every now and then to use the suction to clear the stoma. After he’s eaten his earlier energy fades; Nurse Matsudaira brings in a thermometer after taking away the dinner trays and reports that his fever has risen. </span><p>
  <span>“He needs rest, Azumane-san. It might be best if you left for the night. Visiting hours are almost over anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi looks to Nishinoya. <i>Is that okay?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya makes a face. <i>Do I have a CHOICE?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi taps his phone. <i>For now, you have my thighs to keep you company. I’ll come back tomorrow morning, okay?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Okay,</span>
  </i>
  <span> Nishinoya signs. Asahi gets up and picks up his coat and phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Take care, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Asahi, and waves slightly. Nishinoya gives him a tight, brittle smile, and waves with just his fingertips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi leaves.</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>It’s a long night. He can’t stop thinking about Nishinoya. About the fear in his eyes, about the anger and the anguish rooted so deeply in him, about the nightmare he couldn’t wake himself from. </span><p>
  <span>Nishinoya’s struggle seems so different from his own pathetic inability to commit himself, from his own fears about being judged or shamed for what he is. Asahi is haunted by his own demons but he knows enough to know that most of it’s in his head. Nishinoya… he’s living through something much more real. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi spends the night going back and forth over his uncertainties, his insecurities, probing and plumbing their depths, digging down into the dark heart of his fears. Failure, shame, conflict, persecution. A familiar, sour mixture of weaknesses. Things Nishinoya would trample over without even noticing, things he would be hurt to see Asahi place above him. Wouldn’t he?</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>When you afraid, you text me, I will help, </span>
  </i>
  <span>Nishinoya had told him. But Nishinoya is the one who needs help now. He’s the one Asahi is failing. He’s been unceasingly supportive of Asahi’s pathetic insecurities, and now that he needs something, Asahi is contemplating walking away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolls over and buries his head in the pillow, holding his breath until his lungs ache for oxygen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lying there slowly suffocating, he remembers the gentle warmth of Nishinoya’s hand in his, the way his anxieties had been calmed by that simple touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi turns his head and sucks in a breath, feels the momentary surge of energy as the oxygen hits his system. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has to try to be brave. For Nishinoya, and for himself. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Asahi picks up a serving of ice cream to tempt Nishinoya with on his way into the hospital the next morning, along with a phone charger. He enters and takes the elevator up, strolling along the long ward corridor.</span><p>
  <span>As he nears Nishinoya’s room a nurse comes running down the hall from the nursing station, entering Nishinoya’s room ahead of him. Worry bursts brightly into his chest and he quickens his step. As he approaches the doorway he hears low female voices, punctuated by an automated male one. It’s repeating just one word with identical intonation: <i>No. No. No. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi turns into the doorway and stops dead. Nishinoya is standing pressed into the corner, three nurses clustered around him and Ouno watching with interest from his bed. The libero’s breathing hard and he’s drenched with sweat, eyes wide and the delicate skin under them dark as if bruised. He’s gripping his phone tightly as they talk to him, hitting the screen over and over to repeat the same denial. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yuu!” Asahi presses past the nurses and catches his shoulders; he’s trembling. “What’s happening? What’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuu looks up to him, dropping his phone; it skitters away on the linoleum. <i>Asahi! Asahi!</i> His legs give out and he sinks towards the floor. Asahi catches him and helps him down, sitting beside him. He smells of sweat and antiseptic, an odd mix of natural and artificial. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Talk to me, </span>
  </i>
  <span>Asahi signs. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>They want to put in IV, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Nishinoya.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Okay. You don’t want that?</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>No! No,</span>
  </i>
  <span> Nishinoya shakes his head fretfully. Even from beside him Asahi can feel the heat pouring off his small form, can hear the struggle he’s having to breathe. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Okay. </span>
  </i>
  <span>He looks up to the nurses. “He’s clear that he doesn’t want an IV,” he says. Matsudaira, at the front of the phalanx, looks worried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nishinoya-san is dehydrated and slightly delirious. He’s not getting enough fluids; to recover he needs a steady supply.”</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I’ll drink more, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Nishinoya.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He says he’ll drink more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In order for a quick, stable recovery, he needs intravenous fluids. Doctor’s orders.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beside him, Nishinoya shudders. <i>They listen to doctor. But not me. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look,” says Asahi to the nurses, pleading, “What if I sit with him for a few hours and have him drink regularly. If he’s still not getting enough fluids, we can revisit the IV.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matsudaira purses her lips, uncertain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please,” he says. “You can see how afraid he is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods slowly. “Alright. I’ll speak to the doctor. We’ll revisit in two hours, or if the doctor insists.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you. I’ll make sure he keeps drinking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nurses leave, and Nishinoya lets out a relieved breath and sinks down against Asahi’s side, eyes slipping closed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yuu? Are you okay?” asks Asahi quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Thank you, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Nishinoya, opening his eyes and looking over to Asahi. <i>They wouldn’t listen to me. They never listen to me. </i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi’s throat tightens. <i>Can you tell me why you don’t want the IV?</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya takes a deep, wet breath, and coughs; Asahi reaches up and grabs him a tissue from the bedside table. When he’s breathing more smoothly he leans his head back against the wall. <i>Before… in hospital before… </i>his fingers flutter, and he finds his pace. <i>They told me about the SURGERY. That it would REMOVE the LARYNX. That I wouldn’t breathe through my MOUTH anymore. That RECOVERY would take many weeks. It was scary, but also SIMPLE. They gave me PAPER to WRITE on, told me I could write to them. </i>He pauses, stretching his fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I was so strong, so HEALTHY when I went into SURGERY. And when I came out… </span>
  </i>
  <span>he swallows. <i>I wasn’t me anymore. TUBES everywhere. In my MOUTH, my NOSE, my THROAT, my hand. Even down there… </i>he glances at his groin. <i>It was HORRIBLE. Really HORRIBLE. I was like a… a thing, not a person. </i>His mouth is a thin, shaky line. Asahi reaches out and puts his hand over Nishinoya’s for a moment, brushing his thumb against the libero’s palm. Nishinoya takes a shuddering breath and continues. </span>
</p><p>
  <span><i>I was so SICK, in much PAIN. They gave me DRUGS and I couldn’t WRITE, couldn’t really move. And they just… stopped listening. I was like a BABY to them, something quiet and COMPLIANT to be looked after. Something that didn’t have fears or thoughts. Something that didn’t have a voice. I never want to be that again. But now I’m back, </i>he finishes, and looks up at Asahi. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi reaches out and pulls him into a tight embrace. Just sits there on the floor, holding him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.” Nishinoya’s fingers dig into his shoulders, holding onto him like a lifeline. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit like that for nearly a minute, Nishinoya’s breathing gradually slowing and smoothing, and then his fingers loosen. Asahi pulls back. “Are you okay now?” he asks carefully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya nods, giving a shaky smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay to go back to bed?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nishinoya nods again. Asahi scoops him up in his arms and stands, transferring him easily into the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ouno’s watching them with a kind of bored disgust. “You gonna kiss him better now?” he drawls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time in years, Asahi feels rage sear up inside him. Feels flaming, burning fury scorch his insides. “If he wants me to, then yes,” he replies stiffly. “That’s what boyfriends are for.” He walks around the bed, and before Ouno can protest, rips closed the curtain that separates the two beds. He still catches the other man’s mutter:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pair of fucking homos.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, it doesn’t matter. This ignorant, hateful man and his insular mind don’t mean anything. They’re nothing compared to Nishinoya, so full of life and love and fear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s incredibly liberating. There is nothing this petty bigot can do to him; Asahi doesn’t need to fear his words or his glares. He can concentrate on what’s important. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi turns back to his side and takes his hand. Nishinoya’s looking at him with wide, shocked eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Asahi says. “I’ve been so caught up in my own head that I haven’t been there for you. I should never have been afraid. You’re all that matters.”</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Asahi-san…</span>
  </i>
  <span> Nishinoya gives him a watery smile. <i>Thank you. Thank you.</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi presses his hand. “Now, why don’t I get you some water?”</span>
</p>
<p></p><div><p>
    </p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>***</p></div></div><span>Through relentless attention on Asahi’s part, Nishinoya manages to adequately hydrate, staving off an intravenous line. They sit together all morning, signing and eating ice cream (Asahi is sent out for more) and watching videos. At one point Nishinoya pauses the clip they’re watching of a facial compilation (brutal but fun) and brings up his text log.</span><p>
  <i>
    <span>I forgot! </span>
  </i>
  <span>He signs. <i>Shouyou replied!</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens the message and shows it to Asahi. </span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Thanks Noya-san! Kageyama’s cutting his training back an hour everyday to focus more on JSL. He’s asked me to help teach him! He’s a bad student and I’m a bad teacher, but things are better. We’re talking again. </span>
  </i>
  <i>
    <span>（＾</span>
  </i>
  <i>
    <span>ω</span>
  </i>
  <i>
    <span>＾）</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s great. I’m glad. But you know, you don’t have to worry about others right now,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>I should worry about myself instead? </span>
  </i>
  <span>Asks Nishinoya, grinning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not really what I meant, but…”</span>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <span>Why should I worry – I have you here now, Asahi-san!</span>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <span>Asahi smiles. “I think just Asahi is fine,” he says, and he leans down to press a kiss to Nishinoya’s forehead. “And you’re right. I’m here now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not going anywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>TO BE CONCLUDED IN THE EPILOGUE</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Asamomo = morning thighs :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. EPILOGUE: Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>
    <span>6 months later</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi’s making dinner in the new apartment. He’s still getting used to where everything is in the kitchen – an actual separate room, not a kitchenette – still finding his way around the cupboards and drawers. Not that Nishinoya brought a lot of cooking equipment to the relationship. It’s almost entirely Asahi’s pots and pans, his spice rack and supply of dry food. All Nishinoya contributed were some beat-up chopsticks and a heap of cup ramen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t mind cooking. It’s soothing after a long day of 1:1s and group sessions. He cooks, Nishinoya cleans; it’s a good balance. And, if he’s honest, also a necessity; Nishinoya could burn water. Besides, the libero is ever-grateful for the food Asahi cooks him, and it’s nice to be appreciated for something so small. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Two days ago Nishinoya was back in the hospital, this time for a follow-up exam to his initial cancer diagnosis. They’re still waiting on the results, Asahi growing more anxious as time goes by. Nishinoya has the same boisterous energy as always, but Asahi detects additional ferocity in their love-making, an urge to hold onto what he has. He thinks about it while he watches the pot bubble, thinks about that possessiveness, that protectiveness. Nishinoya’s not alone; Asahi feels it too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s just adding the curry roux into tonight’s beef curry when the key turns in the lock. Asahi is still idly stirring when Nishinoya comes flying in, taking a long leap and landing on Asahi’s back like a monkey. Asahi staggers, choking. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yuu – what? What?” he asks again, seeing Yuu’s arm snake around to shove his phone in Asahi’s face. He picks it up as Yuu disentangles himself, still holding Asahi’s side tightly. It’s a typed report with Nishinoya’s doctor’s stationary at the top. Throat closing, Asahi uses his fingers to zoom in on the small text.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>… <i>x-ray and blood tests are negative for signs of recurrence. At this time, there is no sign of any malignancy or suspected malignancy. Regular screening at one-year intervals is recommended.</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi’s eyes blur with tears. He drops the spoon into the pot, mouth wobbling. “Yuu…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>It’s good news, Asahi! Don’t be a crybaby, </span>
  </i>
  <span>he scolds, but he’s grinning all the same, unable to stop. <i>One year cancer-free!</i></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi pulls him into a fierce hug. “I’m so happy,” he says into Nishinoya’s spiky hair. “So, so happy.” He pulls back and tips Nishinoya’s face up to kiss him tenderly.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Let’s celebrate, </span>
  </i>
  <span>signs Yuu. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course. How? I could go get some champagne – or we could go out for dinner – or…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya wraps his arms around Asahi’s shoulders and presses him up against the cupboard, following through with a series of quick, steamy kisses as he runs his hands over Asahi’s chest and down the gentle curve of his hips. He cants himself against Asahi, rubbing firmly against him. He’s smiling as he does so, the thrill of his happiness transferring itself to Asahi like a live current. His intentions are clear in his shuttered eyes and his swollen lips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm – the curry,” groans Asahi; Nishinoya reaches out blindly and shuts off the gas, continuing to press their bodies together. The friction of Nishinoya’s flat stomach against his groin is sending a delightful, delicious warmth through him, is slowly rousing his cock. He wants Nishinoya to feel the same heat, the same arousal, to feel wonderful. He reaches down and palms Nishinoya through his track suit, feels the libero shudder into their kiss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi’s pull at the elasticised waistband of Nishinoya’s pants. “Okay?” he asks, voice rough with hunger.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya grins his approval and Asahi goes down on his knees before him, pulling his pants and boxer-briefs down and freeing his stiffening prick. Asahi presses kisses down from his navel to the line of his pelvic bone, until his nose is buried in Nishinoya’s dark curling hair. He bobs his head downwards and takes Nishinoya into his mouth; Nishinoya sucks in a deep breath and cants his hips slowly forward. His hands lower to bury his fingers in Asahi’s hair, nails combing over his scalp. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi loves it. Loves the sensation of Nishinoya’s fingers in his hair, of his dick hardening under the attention of his tongue. Loves the taste of the pre-cum that leaks from the tip in thick beads and the way Nishinoya’s breaths catch as he plies his sensitive cock with his tongue, lapping over its length and then sucking. He’s experienced enough now that he can take Nishinoya’s entire length, the tip just pressing at the back of his throat. He reaches up and runs his fingers between the libero’s legs, rubbing against his balls, cupping them, fondling them as he sucks him off. Nishinoya’s fingers in his hair tighten. His cock is swollen and hard now, his hips twitching involuntarily with each eager action of Asahi’s tongue. He arches back, looking up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With his wet, blushing dick hanging out and his head tilted back in ecstasy, Nishinoya looks debauched and beautiful. Asahi presses a kiss to the top of his dick and the libero looks down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you want?” Asahi asks, his cock hot and aching in his pants, his core throbbing hungrily. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>You, </span>
  </i>
  <span>replies Nishinoya immediately. <i>Here, now</i>, he signs. Asahi nods and stands, fumbling with his belt; Nishinoya’s dextrous fingers push away his lust-drunk ones and rip open the buckle, then push his pants and underwear down. Before Asahi can ask he’s reaching out and grabbing the bottle of canola oil from the counter, slicking his fingers deviously. The look in his eye makes Asahi tremble eagerly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya turns him to face the counter, his elbows propped up on the laminate surface. They fucked just last night; he’s still loose from that, from the fat press of Nishinoya’s dick inside him, but he wants it again, wants to feel hot and wet and full. He bends down, ass out, impatient. Nishinoya’s left hand slips around and encircles his prick, pulling at it; Asahi moans.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya taps his hip in warning, then two fingers are sliding inside him, pressing him open. It’s very tight but juxtaposed against the pleasure radiating from his cock it makes him hungrier, makes him want. Sends tendrils of searing arousal up from his core to his spine, running through the length of him. Nishinoya knows how to open him, how to ease him into readiness and while he pumps Asahi’s cock he strokes his fingers in and out, delightful, delicious in their pressure. A third finger slips inside and Asahi shivers, eyes closing momentarily as he savours the tightness. Nishinoya presses a kiss to his shoulder blade. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yuu… please,” he pants. Nishinoya twists his fingers inside, knuckle brushing against Asahi’s hole. “Oh, <i>oh</i> – please.” He’s panting hard, arms trembling as he holds himself up on the cupboard. Nishinoya’s fingers pull out of him, his left hand slowing on Asahi’s cock, and then there’s a burst of pressure/tension/pleasure as he enters. Asahi catches his breath and holds it for one, two, three beats as Nishinoya eases himself in. Then the libero resumes a slow, seductive rhythm with his hand and his hips cant to meet it, and Asahi lets himself breathe again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya’s free hand encircles his waist, holding him close. Asahi can feel his hot forehead pressed against the knob of his spine, his chest against Asahi’s back. They’re glued together, so near to each other, and for all Nishinoya’s pounding into him Asahi can feel the tenderness in his touch, the desire. This isn’t just sex, it’s them sharing everything they are, devoting themselves to each other. Nishinoya’s hand sneaks under his shirt and up his chest, palm hovering over Asahi’s heart. “Mm, Yuu,” breathes Asahi. “Yuu… I think I… I think I…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishinoya’s rhythm increases, Asahi lowering his head to press against the cool kitchen counter, his entire body flooded with warmth, his hips thrusting into Nishinoya’s hand even as the libero ruts up into Asahi. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think I love you,” gasps Asahi, on the edge of orgasm and unable to stop himself. Nishinoya slams into him, grinding balls-deep, his fat cock stretching Asahi and it feels so good, so right, so…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi comes, shuddering, painting the kitchen cabinets white with his cum. Nishinoya keeps right on thrusting, the feeling so intense he thinks he may come apart at the seams, and then as Asahi begins to relax the libero follows him over the edge, spilling inside him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As soon as he’s done he turns Asahi around, the wet cabinet pressed against his thighs, both their cocks limp and dripping. Asahi reaches out and tears off some paper towel for clean-up. <i>Asahi, did you just confess your love for me for the first time while I was fucking you? </i>Nishinoya demands, wiping himself off and hitching up his pants. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He swallows. “Um… I… I just… I’ve been thinking it a lot lately and I wanted to find the right time to tell you and… I just blurted it out. I couldn’t think of anything else – you make me feel so good, you make me want you so badly and my mind just kind of goes blank.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>My sexiness made you love me? </span>
  </i>
  <span>Asks Nishinoya, trying to keep a straight face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi smiles as he re-dresses himself. “I love everything about you. Your sexiness is just what made me say it.” His voice is thick, tender. “Is – is that okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <span>Asahi – I love you so fucking much I don’t know what to do about it. You’re my everything. So yes, it’s okay. </span>
  </i>
  <span>He takes Asahi’s hands in his and kisses his knuckles, eyes firmly on Asahi. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Asahi squeezes his fingers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you, Yuu.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>END</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Aaaand that's a wrap. Thanks so much everyone for coming along on this journey and for all the positive thoughts and encouragement, I hope you enjoyed this. 45,000 words in a month - probably a new record for me! See you on the flip side.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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